Murder without Guilt
by sarapals with past50
Summary: It begins with Sara in Vegas working; Gil is in Paris. A murder occurs in Vegas with ties to a death near Paris-our favorite couple gets together, and as always, fluff. Grissom returns to Vegas, several surprises, all GSR.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Do not own characters or CSI-just having fun. Here's a story that will move from Paris suburbs to the Las Vegas strip. Updates will be 5 to 7 days apart. Its murder, mystery, and of course, FLUFF!_

**Murder Without Guilt Chapter 1**

Outside of Paris, a modest house, old but recently remodeled, near one of the small villages that managed to retain its old world appeal primarily because it was not located near a major highway or train station, lost its resident-owner, quietly, almost unnoticed, as the last breath slipped from the mouth of the home's occupant.

The first to notice the bright smear of blood was the housemaid—right above the keyhole on the front door. The color was as bright as poppies along the roadside in early spring, but today, it was too early for flowers and the color seemed richer, filled with dark crimson and violet—and it dripped. The maid, arriving at her usual time, pushed the door open and saw the second vivid red blotch on the cream colored carpet. She followed the trail from the door until she found the body. Except when she spoke on the phone, she referred to the body by name, saying the lady had fallen and needed assistance—a private ambulance, please.

The motorcycle policeman arrived next—faster because the local health service, the _véhicules de premiers secours,_ was staffed by volunteers. By the time he checked the body, and he was well equipped to do so with equipment that included condensed versions of the latest life saving devices, he knew emergency responders would not be needed and placed a call to cancel their trip to the house on the outskirts of the village.

The maid, who had worked for this lady for a number of years, offered tea and information as needed; the family—a son and daughter-in-law—were expected to arrive from Paris in the late afternoon. She made the sign of the cross as the policeman covered the older woman and said:

"_Demain, c'est jour de son anniversaire,"_ quietly and sorrowful adding an age of seventy-three.

The uniformed man noticed the shoes that had fallen away from the feet, high heels, not really appropriate foot wear for a woman in her seventies, especially with the cobblestone walk to the front door. He was the first to find the splotchy scarlet splatter on the walkway; he even noticed the mark made on the stone where it looked as if a heel had slipped. He called the local investigator for crime scenes; she was involved with another case and after trading questions and answers, the two decided an accidental death was probable unless something turned up to suggest otherwise. He covered the blooded cobblestones with a handmade tent, called an off-duty friend to bring a collection box to the scene, and placed another for a body pick-up vehicle.

He agreed with the housemaid; this was a sad situation, especially before the old lady's birthday, but not one that was unusual. Falls were often and in the old, tragic, especially when one wore shoes designed for young women. He drank the offered tea, ate sweet cakes the maid had brought in as she attempted to contact the traveling family. As there was rarely a hurry for a dead body, his friend arrived with the collection box and helped to pry up the stones, which they bagged and labeled, adding the shoes to another bag; the two men had completed their collection by the time a dark van arrived for the body.

Just as the first responder thought everything was going well, a new car pulled into the gravel driveway—one of those American-sized, expensive rentals, he thought. And he knew the son had arrived.

…_Several months later in Las Vegas_…

The elevator operated without a sound, silent doors sliding open revealing an expensively furnished foyer of an exclusive penthouse suite. Sara Sidle Grissom and Greg Sanders lifted their cases from the thick carpet, glanced at each other, and stepped out.

"It's bad," Nick Stokes said as he met the two arriving investigators. These three loved working together regardless of the blood, guts, gore, splatter, "no one has ever done this before" crime scenes; they worked as a fine tuned machine with the ability to know what needed to be done. Nick and Sara had been friends from the day she arrived in Vegas. He could flirt; she would tease, and he loved her as a sister—better than a sister he realized one day after his sister had visited. He would take Sara's company over any person he knew and the day she returned to work had been cause for him to sing all shift! As for Greg, Nick had to give the boy his rightful place on the team; a boy no longer, Greg had grown into a full-fledged investigator and sometime Nick had to shake himself to realize he was not listening to Grissom when Greg went on and on about some trivial topic he knew too much about and relished in sharing it with everyone at the table.

"Wife returned from dinner to find him like this…" Nick stepped aside so the two could see the crime scene.

What was left of a very large man was bound and tied to an expensive chair in the center of the palatial room, top floor of one of the most expensive resorts in Vegas. Only those willing to lose hundreds of thousands of dollars stayed here. This one would probably be empty for a while based on the amount of gore clinging to the windows, drapes, furniture, and slopped around on the carpet surrounding the body.

Somewhere, in another part of the suite, Sara could hear the quiet moaning cries of a woman—the wife she guessed. They circled the blood pool, taking in the numerous cuts inflicted on the body, some so shallow to be no more than a cat scratch, others deep through layers of fat and muscle exposing organs and bone; a few were gouges where pieces of tissue had been cut away and flicked toward a window—almost mocking the victim that all those people along the Strip could not help him. The man's face had been cut beyond recognition—his bottom lip had been sliced and pulled below his chin, his nose had been split from its bulbous tip to between his eyes—or the sockets where his eyes should have been.

"Here's an eye," Greg said, stooping to place a marker beside the slick ball at his feet. "Looks like it might have hit the window first."

Sara was swallowing and trying to hold a tight grin across her face. The smell wasn't so bad—the room was cold—but the sight of pooled and coagulated blood was almost making her nauseous, or the sight of this man cut to ribbons, held to a chair by gray duct tape and long plastic snap ties that had cut deep into his flesh at wrists and elbows. She dug into her vest for a wafer—a small salty cracker that had helped her several days before. She did not want to throw up, not here, not with Nick and Greg standing over her shoulder. She moved farther away from the body and found an air vent blowing cool air. She lifted her face and took a deep breath.

Below the metal vent was a glob of bloody pink, triangle in shape; she nearly retched as she realized it was human flesh. She managed to speak, "Here—looks like tissue." She placed another cracker in her mouth and brought her camera to her face. She was fifteen feet from the body.

Greg's next question of "Who is this guy?" brought Jim Brass into their circle—even Brass wore protective booties on his shoes.

A whale, he said. Rich, very rich, owner of hotels in New York City, Chicago, Miami, Denver, San Francisco, and part owner of hotels around the world—family money traced back to his grandfather. Las Vegas casinos knew the guy; the shops knew his wife. They had been in Vegas for two days with the dead guy at one of the exclusive blackjack tables until six hours ago.

"I've got surveillance tapes coming—only in the elevators in this part of the place." Brass nodded toward the closed door. "The wife is in there—had dinner with her friends. Came back to this." He circled the body. "Somebody didn't like this guy, but how do you get twenty floors high to do this kind of job and then disappear?"

Everyone looked at the carnage as they tried to make sense of what met their eyes. Obviously the man had been tortured for some time; his clothes were shredded by cuts and clotted with blood. In the pool of blood near the chair were two knives and a box cutter. Farther away were shoes, a pair of boots, a pair of loafers—Greg made a guess that neither pair belonged to the dead man.

"So whoever killed him left their shoes?" Sara questioned even though she knew the answer. The boots and loafers were cheap shoes. She turned a complete circle. "Is there any other way out of here? Where's the stairs—fire escape?"

Nick had remained in one place, knuckles tucked on his hips, feet apart. "Okay, who wants in and who wants out? Balcony, staircase or in here."

Quickly, Sara volunteered. "Stairs, balcony, please."

Nick nodded and the three went to work gathering evidence. Dead was dead regardless of money or fame or family or place, Sara thought as she opened a large sliding door to a spacious balcony. Her instinct told her the murderers had escaped by staircase—the shoes pointed to at least two people—so the balcony search would be quick and easy, and provide a breath of fresh air she desperately needed.

Spring time in Vegas lasted a few days at best and the heat closed in as she stepped outside. Lights illuminated the balcony area as a stage in a theater; chairs, tables and sofas appeared as props on the set. Sara walked, shining the intense beam of her flashlight on cushions, edges of tables, looking for anything that might have come from inside the lavish suite. Her eyes almost missed the area on a banister post—a small scraping of a painted edge. She looked down to see balconies on every floor cascading below her. She turned back to the brightly lighted rooms to see David Phillips and two other men in coveralls working on the body. As she watched, one hand of the dead man twisted in an odd turn. She blinked twice as she realized the hand was almost disarticulated at the wrist. Nick and Greg caught her eye and she waved for them to join her.

"Look at this," she said as she pointed to the exposed half-inch area of concrete on the post, the only one missing any paint.

Nick did as she had done and peered over the balcony railing. "You thinking they went over the side?" He whistled. "Man, that's a long way down."

"Not to another balcony," Sara said. "Just high."

The hotel manager was reluctant to open its rooms but had no choice when electronic key cards and camera tapes showed no one exiting the murder suite—only the wife left and returned. There was no signal sent from the fire doors which opened to the staircase. Nick, Greg, and Sara continued documenting and collecting while Brass left to work with the hotel staff to check rooms. The wife, surrounded by hotel staff and at least two policewomen, moved to another floor.

Nick tweezed a blood soaked fiber from a sofa. "This is more parts and pieces than I've ever seen from a body."

"Wood chipper guy." Sara replied. "He was in more pieces."

Nick chuckled. "That was a whole body—this is just pieces and we still have a body."

Hours later, exhausted, sweaty, with evidence bags filled with blood, bone, tissue, fibers, hair, and miscellaneous bits and pieces, the three crime scene investigators heard Brass as the elevator opened.

"You guys finished up here?" He walked into the middle of the room shaking his head. "No one below us looks to be capable of swinging from this balcony to another—at least no one who is in the rooms." He glanced at the stack of evidence. "Are you up to checking balconies?"

Greg grimaced, Nick wiped his face, and Sara let out a loud sigh.

"Can we eat first?" Greg asked.

They did eat. The hotel manager kept them out of sight by bringing sandwiches to an unused meeting room. He also brought names of guests, a blueprint of the building, and more tapes from elevators and hallways. Sara nibbled at an apple. She needed to eat but her stomach was not cooperating. No one noticed that she played with half of a sandwich, ate a few chips, and threw away most of the apple.

The sun came up in front of them as their search of balconies continued into the morning. They found nothing probative—nothing on railings, dozens of different fibers that probably came from hotel towels, no guest reported any suspicious activity.

"What if they parachuted off the building?" Greg asked as he rubbed fingers over his eyes.

Nick shrugged, "Good idea, but you can't parachute onto a balcony—I don't think you can, anyway. Besides, someone would have seen that kind of activity." He had knelt to examine a corner of a chaise lounge where paint was missing. "Have we found anything? Heard anything from Brass or Catherine?"

_A/N: Leave a review so we know who reads this one-thanks!_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thanks to everyone for reading! Enjoy Chapter 2..._

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 2**

Twenty four hours passed and they were no closer to solving the murder of Mr. Howard Harvell Harcourt, hotel tycoon and business mogul. His wife was interviewed on local television and, calling the sheriff by his first name, insisted the murder would be solved quickly. Autopsy results were disturbing—over two hundred cuts and slashes counted on the body. Doc Robbins said one of two "final cuts" had caused death; one to the neck, had nearly severed the spinal cord, another across his mid-section had slashed his liver, and both caused massive blood loss.

"It means he was alive when his eyes were cut out with the box cutter," he explained to the group gathered around the table.

"How long did this go on?" Catherine said as she motioned to the body.

"My best guess places his death only minutes before the wife entered the room—perhaps as much as an hour before she got there. How long it took to torture him," he shook his head. "Based on blood, I'd say two hours. How long was the wife out of the suite?"

Nick answered his question, "Four hours. She called for room service and left him asleep."

Doc Robbins covered the body with a sheet. "Is the wife up for this?"

"Don't think she had time, Doc. She was sitting center-stage in the dining room downstairs with five friends. She didn't even go to the ladies without a friend." Nick raked his hand over his face. "And we found nothing—nothing—to lead us to anyone else. The room service cart was the only thing going into that room and so far…" He held up one hand, placing index finger to thumb indicating zero.

Catherine scowled. "The sheriff is all over this because the hotels are raising hell—which means Ecklie is prowling the halls." She looked around the table at her team—the group she had watched grow into the best investigators in Nevada, maybe the entire United States, she thought as she smiled. "Just—just keep those minds working on this one."

They worked new cases, returning to find the file of "Triple H" as they tagged the dead man, lying on one desk or the other. They watched videos from the hotel until they could name every person using the elevators, interviewed the man who delivered the room service cart and a dozen other hotel employees and guests, and obtained background checks of anyone with access to the elevators. Early one morning, Brass called Nick; within minutes, he called Sara and Greg.

"We may have a break—SpeakEzy Pawn on Charleston."

The pawn shop owner held out a gaudy watch with three initials encrusted with diamonds. "I told the guy to come back later so my jeweler could look at this, then I called you guys." He tapped the initials. "This has got to belong to the dead guy everyone's talking about."

The wife insisted the watch had disappeared weeks before the murder. "He was always giving things away," she said.

The watch tested positive for blood, not a lot of blood, but enough to indicate more than a razor cut had spotted it.

Reviewing video of the victim at the private gambling tables did not reveal what was hidden by his French cuffs.

The man who brought the watch to the pawn shop never returned.

Frustration mounted and spilled around the lab in various ways. Nick paced; Catherine's temper flared more than once over minor things. Ray tried to make jokes but finally disappeared into Doc Robbins' morgue. Greg and Sara paired up whenever possible and escaped the lab for burglaries, shoplifting, arson, stolen cars, or any other crime than came in.

"What am I going to do for two weeks?" Greg complained. "You'll leave me and I'll get the brunt of every thing that's going on." He dusted a door for fingerprints as Sara followed with lifting film.

"I know Catherine's in a rush to close this murder, but she can't go faster than the evidence."

Greg grinned. "You sound like Grissom."

Sara lifted an eyebrow. "Yeah?" She laughed. "He'll be back pretty soon, you know—not to the lab. He's still hoping for a grant, but a researcher at the university wants him to work on a grant out there." She stopped what she was doing for a few minutes.

Greg halted his dusting brush and watched Sara. "Daydreaming?" he asked.

Hours afterwards, sitting in the tub, Sara pulled the plug with her toes and stared down at her body as the water drained away. Greg had caught her in a moment of daydreaming—the private thoughts that had taken up so much of her waking hours for the past week had not been noticed by anyone else. In a few hours she would be on her way to Paris and Vegas would fade into the background of her daily life for ten long and glorious days. She smiled.

Sara loved to work, loved the puzzles involved in what she was doing now, and had managed at last to separate her own emotions from much of what she saw at work. While the work was what she loved, who she loved was thousands of miles away. Gil Grissom had six weeks left on his obligations in Paris and he had promised to return home—to her. She believed their love could survive a long-distance relationship, and the current situation had brought about some very pleasing and enjoyable times for them when their days of separation ended. She giggled as she thought about the tiny bathroom in Paris. The current question she avoided was whether or not she wanted to continue as a crime scene investigator; if Gil received a grant, she would have to make a decision. Now there was another possibility.

Sara loved her husband and missed him more than she could put into words. But she had been by herself most of her life; they both had. Since Grissom had found her in Costa Rica, they had scarcely been more than arm's length from one another. Grissom loved it and, truth told, he would have Sara working next to him fifteen hours a day, sleeping with him the remaining hours, and never complain. Ecklie's request for help gave Sara needed breathing room to process the new direction of the rest of her life, the joys of matrimony, and now, the somewhat surprising secret she was carrying with her to Paris. While she was unsure of her own feelings about this new development, she knew with certainty the reaction of her husband.

She smiled as she swept her hand from shoulder, across her chest to her abdomen, where she let her hand rest for a few moments. She continued smiling as she levered herself out of the spacious tub and toweled dry. Her two small bags were packed; each time she traveled with less. As she raced around doing last minute tasks, her phone rang twice.

Her husband called to confirm her arrival time. "I'll take the train in…no, do not come to the airport!" She laughed at his insistence at meeting her. "Just have food—something good. And Gil—walk Hank before I get there, please!" His quiet sexy laugh caused her to wish he was in the next room instead of a fifteen hour flight away.

The second call came from Greg. "I'll be there in five," he said. He insisted on taking her to the airport; he would also be there when she returned.

Some where over the Atlantic, nearly asleep with legs stretched out in the extra space of an emergency exit row seat, the occasional queasiness Sara had experienced for a week became full blown nausea. She bolted upright, hand to mouth, and smelled coffee. It was enough to put the unsettling feeling in her stomach into the back of her mouth and she made a run for the bathroom.

A flight attendant recognized the urgency of her actions, held the door open for Sara and pulled it closed as she bent over the toilet. The contents of her stomach were quickly emptied and Sara continued to retch. She splashed water on her face and threw up again. A few minutes passed before the same flight attendant asked:

"Are you okay, honey?" A warm washcloth and a bottle of water passed into the small restroom.

Sara managed murmured thanks. But before she could return to her seat she was heading back to the restroom with another wave of nausea. The smell of breakfast on the plane set her stomach into major upheaval and she was gagging before she closed the bi-fold door.

The same flight attendant met her as she emerged. "Why don't you sit back here—keeps you closer. And I'll put an 'out of order' sign on this door." She handed Sara several packages of crackers. "These might help."

Every experienced flight attendant tried to avoid a cabin filled with vomiting passengers and isolating one person as best as possible often prevented the same reaction in others. "Is there anything I can get for you? From your bag?"

Sara shook her head, "No, I—I haven't been sick like this before—I'm—I'm pregnant—just a few weeks."

The flight attendant smiled. "That's a good sign—morning sickness—means the pregnancy is settling in." She reached between the seats and lifted the arm rests. "I'll get a fresh pillow. Keep your head down and a cracker in your mouth. Sometimes that helps." She adjusted the air vents above the row of empty seats. "More air might help too, and we won't need these seats until we get ready to descend."

Sara's head hit the pillow as she folded her legs onto the seat. Anything for a little relief, she thought. She unwrapped a salty cracker and placed it in her mouth. If she stayed completely still, if she held her breath as the food cart passed her, she might overcome the urge to throw up again. She rolled the cool bottle of water across her neck and closed her eyes.

A hand touched her shoulder, "Time to wake up," a soft voice said. "We'll be landing shortly—stay here—I'll take your seat in the exit row."

Somewhat groggily, Sara nodded, raked hair out of her face and pushed herself upright. The sudden movement brought back the nausea and she dropped her head between her knees with a groan.

"Use this while we land," a flight bag was shoved into her hand, "and ice on your neck." Sara managed slow even breaths as the chill of wrapped ice cooled her neck and the queasiness subsided. She kept her head between her knees as the plane circled the airport once before it descended for landing.

She was able to make it off the airplane and into the first ladies room on the concourse before another round of nausea and vomiting hit her. She gulped air a few times before her gag reflex took over and she heaved water out of her stomach. For a few minutes, her stomach calmed and she managed to peel the wrapper from more crackers and placed a piece on her tongue.

In the restroom, she washed her face, put on a clean shirt, and combed her hair. She still looked pale, her eyes shadowed and drawn. She scowled at her reflection; not the way she wanted to see her husband after seventeen long days, she thought. Nausea hit her again, not as bad as on the plane and dropping her head, shoving a bit of cracker in her mouth helped it to pass.

She repeated this procedure at least four times from customs to the express train and during the thirty minute ride into the city. Finally, when her feet were on the sidewalk a few blocks from the apartment, she managed to breathe in enough air that seemed to calm her stomach—until she passed the small café and the combined smell of coffee and cooking odors hit her nose. She hurried her footsteps with her hand clamped over her mouth and nose and made it inside the apartment with seconds to spare before she vomited into the toilet. She slid to the floor, grabbing a towel, as she threw up again.

...The flowers had been hand selected at the flower stall and the loaf of bread under his arm was still warm as Gil Grissom made his way home; Hank's leash was looped over his wrist and the dog led the way home. Grissom's walk was quick and easy; his grin broadened across his face with every step. Inside the apartment building, Hank leaped ahead of him, both surprised to find the door was slightly open. Hank did not hesitate but Grissom did when he saw the two bags dropped on the floor.

"Sara!" The bread and flowers were left on the table. The apartment was small—too small to hide anywhere—and almost immediately Grissom realized all was not as it should be. Hank had stopped at the bathroom door; Grissom had to step over the dog to reach the door.

"Sara," his voice softened to a whisper as he saw his wife crumpled on the floor, her head between her knees, face in a towel. "Oh, honey." He knelt on the floor which was barely large enough for one person to stand, and two people on the floor meant tangling legs around the toilet. His hands brushed dark hair away from Sara's face. "How long have you been sick?"

Sara had managed a roller coaster ride of emotions for a week; one minute she was giddy with anticipation, the next found her filled with doubt and apprehension, but she had not cried. Now she did. Tears formed in her eyes, rushed over lashes, soaked her cheeks and dripped from her chin. Grissom wet the towel and wiped her face as she choked and retched, nothing coming from her stomach. When she tried to place her forehead on the rim of the toilet, he simply took her head in his hands and held her against his chest. She tried to speak but her words were such an incoherent rabble that Grissom's fingers finally quieted her.

"Let's get you to bed—I'll put the trash can next to you and run to the pharmacy to get something for your stomach." He wiped her face again, not sure when she had started vomiting, but understanding a flight attendant had been nice to her on the plane when she was sick.

Wide wet eyes met his. "Gil, I—I did—didn't want it to be this way," she stammered. "I had plans—I can't take—any medication." She filled her lungs with air, her hand touched his face. Her chin quivered slightly before she said, "I—we're having a baby."

_A/N: Review? Comments? Next chapter soon._


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Change of rating! Enjoy!_

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 3**

A few seconds passed as he comprehended her words. Later, Sara would say his mouth opened and closed twice before words came out.

"A baby," he whispered. "A baby." His fingers touched Sara's face, her skin under his hands as his thumbs traced gently across tracks of recent tears. His lips twitched as a smile began to develop across his face. He whispered again, "A baby," and as he pulled her face to his, as his mouth found hers, Sara knew she heard a quiet satisfied chuckle.

Her arms slid around his neck, and in a way that neither remembered, they were on the bed. His hands explored her body—the up-thrusts of her breasts and the smooth plain of her belly and firmness of her butt with his palm, the folds and crevices of what made her a woman with his fingertips. He buried his face against her shoulder and kissed the protruding bony angle of her clavicle, moved his hand along the graceful curve of her rib cage, and let his finger play with the indention at her navel. As he splayed his outstretched hand across her belly, touching the crest of her hip with his thumb and little finger, he spoke again:

"A baby—for us, Sara—a baby."

He wrapped his arms around her and looked down with eyes full of unexpected tears at the pale face of the woman who had been made for him, placed on earth for him to love, and in return, to be loved by her. Her arms and legs were around him, bounding him to her. He placed his face against the softness of her cheek and whispered in her ear, "I love you, Sara."

In a way that was new to both, yet much as they had done in the past, they made love. His mind reeled and slipped, thoughts became blindingly bright; he felt the brilliance of the sun, and felt the sea rising around him on a tide quickly familiar. He managed to hold his climax until he heard a gasp, and watched as Sara's mouth opened in astonished pleasure. He clung to her, this silky sleek body that belonged to him and succumbed to his fate.

Sleep had eluded Sara. For a week, she had tried to envision Grissom's reaction to her news. It had not been this—his sudden softness, the tears in his eyes, the sweetness of his desire, and the slow tenderness of how he had made love to her. She was tired, too, but did not sleep. The nausea was gone for now; her mouth no longer had the taste of hot bitterness. She smiled—not after all of those kisses tasting of sweet wine—or grape juice, she suspected. She would sleep later, after he was awake and he had uttered his first words—coherent words, she hoped.

From the moment she had blurted out her news, his actions had been poetry, only pleasure, no seconds of regret—she knew him well enough to recognize what she had seen in his eyes, felt with her body, and heard with her ears. He woke and stirred. She looked into eyes and saw love in their blueness which had warmed her, given her purpose, and made her happy, happier than she could remember ever being.

Grissom enfolded her in his arms, lay his hand on Sara's face, feeling the texture of her skin warming his fingers. He kissed her forehead. "You know I love you very much."

Sara shifted slightly so their bodies curved together, softness and hardness fitting together as they remembered. "I missed you—so much it hurt." The way she sighed caused Grissom to pull her closer. "I dreamed of you, of us…" she said, moving against him. Their mouths found each other; Sara felt she had been starving, and could not eat or drink enough except through him. She tasted the sweetness again on his tongue. It was a long kiss; he held her mouth and her body in equally tight grasps until she felt a pounding that was like surf—she realized it came from her own heart.

Lifting his head, Grissom took an even, composed breath that belied the actions of the rest of his body. "Is—is this okay? Should we be doing…" his finger waggled between them. "I mean—you know—with the baby—pregnancy—and we are…"

Sara's laughter stopped his words. For days she had been afraid to laugh, afraid of her own emotions, anxious about telling Grissom—not his reaction to a baby—but how she would tell him. And his quizzical look, his wrinkled forehead, that one eyebrow raised so slightly, the question on his lips that he could not form brought an immense sense of relief to her. She laughed as her hands touched him, curving, stroking, feeling the muscles in his arms, the smoothness of his chest, the hardness between her legs.

"Yes, yes," she said the words as one long breath. Yes, she thought, yes, we are going to be fine.

Grissom took her breast in his mouth; her nipple tightened beneath his lips and tongue, and a long sigh that was his name broke from her as pleasure radiated through her. His caressing hand slid along the curve of her waist, down her thighs, opening her folds with his fingers, sliding into the wet darkness within. Her hands took his head between them, fiercely kissing him, taking his lower lip between her teeth; still hungry for him, her lips moved, sucking, gently biting, along the smooth skin of his neck and shoulder, tasting the tangy fragrance of the soap he had used earlier.

Abruptly, Grissom stopped what he was doing and raised himself on an elbow, holding Sara with one hand placed on her hip. "You're sure this is okay? I mean—you've not been pregnant before—are you sure?"

A soft giggle escaped as Sara captured his face again between her hands. "Yes, concerned papa. Yes, husband, lover. I've seen my doctor, read two books—one I brought with me. Having sex during pregnancy is perfectly all right!" She moved to face him and wiggled her hips against his. "And I'm not feeling sick right now!" She let her hand move to his backside and pressed her fingers into his flesh. Teasingly, she whispered, "Now get those hands moving, lips on mine and fuck me like you mean it!"

"Sara," he said gruffly, "we never do that!" He kissed her—beginning with her mouth, moved to her nose, her forehead, each delicate eyelid that hid her dark eyes; he kissed her tangled curls and explored the curved of her body as if it were their first time. He was so aroused, so absorbed by her that it startled him. Urgency flared again as her legs opened and he seemed to be pulled inside her, deep, thrusting, filling her.

He raised himself on his hands and lifted his body above hers and together they watched as he disappeared deep within her, hard and glistening, then slide up and thrust down again, while her hands moved over his chest and down his abdomen and to his thighs as he pulled out of her before plunging down once more. Then his weight was on her, his hands raising her hips, his tongue meeting hers, and Sara felt an overwhelming sense of need, desire, pleasure merge into one sensation, in an instant, with one man. Their bodies moved together, setting up a rhythm that moved them as one.

"Sara," Grissom said, the passionate sound of her name on his lips was as soft as an afternoon breeze, sweeping them up as both reached climax and fell into a warm whirlpool of a salty sea.

Sara slept, and when she woke, the mid-day sun had moved past the windows of the apartment. She opened her eyes and saw Grissom watching her. She smiled. "I dreamed of you, waking up and finding you. Did I sleep long?"

He returned to bed and slipped an arm beneath her and cradled her to his chest. "About three hours—you need to sleep longer—you need your rest."

She was drowsy, but said, "I'm actually hungry—haven't wanted to eat much." She closed her eyes and kissed his chest. "I love you, Gil Grissom."

He chuckled. "I hope so. I'm your baby's daddy now, so you have to keep me around." He kissed the top of her head. "Stay here and I'll bring you some food. I have bread, grapes, cheese, eggs, orange juice."

Sara moved around, swinging her legs across his. "I think I'm taking root here. Let's eat at the table." Hank had arrived at bedside. Sara's hand reached to pet the dog. "I didn't have time to speak to Hank when I came in." She looked up. "Where's Heather?" This was the kitten she had adopted shortly after arriving in Paris.

"That cat is a pain in my butt," Grissom grumbled. When Sara giggled, he elaborated. "She's all over everything—sleeps on my shirts if I don't hang them up! Hides my socks." Sara continued to laugh and he held her in bed. "And the toilet tissue—I told you about that—tore all of it to shreds! And I found bits and pieces for days around here."

"What if I take her home with me?"

Immediately, he shook his head. "No way—I know about toxoplasmosis, cats and pregnant women. I'll keep Heather—she'll fly home with me!"

"Gil, Heather's a vegetarian, indoor cat—she's never been exposed. I can take care of her. I'll even get tested to see if I'm already positive."

"Nope, Heather stays here and continues to be my pain in the butt." He grinned. "And now its time to feed you. We can go out if you want a real meal."

Bread and cheese, grapes and water met her immediate need. After playing with the kitten, she showered and stepping from the shower found Grissom waiting. His hands held a towel.

"How's the sickness?" He asked.

She smiled. "Gone—for now." She took the offered towel as he leaned against the doorway. "It's weird—shows up when least expected. Not always in the morning, not always with food, but the smell of coffee almost always sets off nausea." She had wrapped the towel around her body and turned to face him. "Are you really happy about this?"

She knew his answer by the smile on his face. "I am. Very happy," he said as he leaned forward and kissed her. "And you, Sara? Are you happy?" His hand touched her shoulder and his fingers caught wet curls.

She smiled as she said, "It's growing on me," which caused her to giggle. "I guess its growing in me too." She had picked up a comb and tapped it against her chin. "I've told you I never thought I'd have children—not until we married did I actually think it might happen." She smiled again, her voice trembled as she spoke. "I think I'm looking forward to a little Gilbert."

Grissom kissed her again. "I'm thinking a little miniature Sara." He lifted a lock of dark hair. "Dark hair and dark eyes and that funny little smile just like her mother."

_Thanks for reading, and reviewing! Little Gil or little Sara, or one of each? And there is a question of a death coming up..._


	4. Chapter 4

_Enjoy!_

**Murder Without Guilt Chapter 4**

The plaza in front of the Centre Pompidou was a popular place for jugglers and street theater groups to attract an audience. Grissom and Sara watched a group of young acrobats as they tumbled and tossed each other into the sky. The crowd laughed as the act turned to a series of vaudeville type somersaults before the performers took a bow to the watchers' applause.

Grissom kept an arm draped around Sara's back. She knew his touch was without conscious thought yet his hand had not left her body since they started their walk. For so long they had not touched—all the years of working together, side by side, rarely brought more than brief contact with their hands. Even when they had moved in together it had taken long months for touch to become easy and familiar. Yet now it was so much a part of being together—his hand on her back, his fingers reaching for her hand, his arm around her shoulders. It wasn't just in walking; sitting together, one's fingers would reach out, a foot would touch a calf, knees would make contact. It was an act of comfort, of belonging.

"We can get an early dinner—if you're hungry," he said, "or we can walk. I've decided Paris gets bigger the more one walks the streets."

"I'm hungry, and I need to sit for a while." Sara said then realized Grissom's hand had tightened on her back. She smiled. "Jet lag—and no nausea."

The restaurant they entered was well-known to them, found by accident with a little tour book. Sara tilted her head to admire the elaborately painted ceiling while Grissom switched to French to order food.

Sara loved Paris and had realized months ago the tour books were right. Paris was a special place; it had its litter and graffiti and slum housing like any other city, but its architecture had a sense of design built for harmony and scale, open spaces for gardens and parks that were not just grass and greenery. She and Grissom had established a pattern—the day of her arrival, he was with her, then he returned to lectures and research and she was on her own. She walked alone and with Hank, she visited a museum, she read, she shopped for food, but almost never shopped for anything else.

On her third morning, the nausea returned with a vengeance. Immediately, she dropped her head back to the pillow and waited until Grissom was out of the shower.

"Crackers, please," she said as he returned to the bed, a towel wrapped around his waist. Another part of their routine would be disrupted this morning, she thought, as his smile turned into a worried frown.

His hand gently touched her face. "Is there anything I can do? Other than crackers?" He plumped a pillow and slid it underneath her head. "I'll stay here."

Sara smiled. "No need. I'll be fine in a few hours if I just keep my head down."

In several hours the sick feeling had passed and she was standing with Hank outside Grissom's lecture hall as students poured from the building. She recognized Grissom's walk before she saw the rest of him.

"You're better?" He asked and after a few minutes of assurance and reassurance, he handed her a folded paper. "I got an email from Catherine—saying your phone wasn't working and you were not checking email, so please call her." He held the paper for a few seconds before he let her take it. "No work—she wants you to do something—probably review cases or something while you are here. Tell her 'no'—you are off!"

Sara snickered, "She learned how to assign work from an expert!" As she unfolded the paper, a woman called to Grissom. Sara recognized her as one of the researchers as the woman greeted her in a familiar way with a kiss to each cheek.

A rapid French conversation flowed between the woman and Grissom and Sara's slow translation followed behind their talk until she heard _"attendre un bebe"_ and _"bonne santé"_. Her eyes widened as she looked at Grissom's very animated face and hands. He gestured at her belly and the woman's reply was one of congratulations—Sara understood French well enough to respond with a simple "merci" before the lady turned back to Grissom with a smile and, using her hands, was obviously giving him directions before leaving them, adding congratulations again.

"I can't believe you told someone!" Sara whispered, her face clearly showing her displeasure.

Grissom stopped walking so suddenly that others on the sidewalk nearly sideswiped the couple to avoid a collision. His charming grin was enough to make Sara forget her irritation.

He said, "I couldn't help it—I—I told the whole group." His hands connected nervously. "You're not mad, are you? I know I should have waited, but—but this is exciting news!"

Sara leaned to his face and kissed him. "Of course not." She was worried about dozens of pregnancy related concerns but she would not—could not—put any of them in words. "You didn't say anything to Catherine in an email?"

He shook his head. "I'll let you do that." He made a grimace. "I'm afraid of Catherine." He wrapped an arm around her waist. "Caroline gave directions to a shop—said we had to see it. Are you okay?"

They headed in the direction of one of the many streets filled with small shops that lined so many of the small lanes and avenues of Paris. They passed dress shops, shirt shops, several flower stalls, and a dozen other places selling merchandise in a way no longer found in large cities or small towns in the United States. Grissom counted storefronts until they came to the right one and stopped—both gawked, open-mouthed, at what filled the window of the store.

Grissom was the first to recover his voice. "Let's go inside."

"Gil—it's too early," Sara said as she tried to comprehend what she was seeing. A dozen infant sized dresses, gowns, shoes, bonnets and hats were displayed in the window—all in white, edged with fine stitches and lace and tiny ribbons—an amazing assortment of baby clothes sewn with exquisite hand-worked detail.

Somehow, even as her mind refused, Grissom's arm around her propelled into the shop, saying "We can look—we're having a baby, Sara!"

With years of experience in her layette shop, _layette pour bebes_, the proprietor recognized the newly pregnant—and the older man was obviously the proud papa, she thought, as he guided the slim younger woman into the shop. Her careful eyes quickly scanned the lady's face and settled on her customer's abdomen and again correctly identified early pregnancy. Americans, too, she thought, and she acknowledged them with a smile and an English welcome.

"Hello, welcome to _Layette for Babies_," she said. She opened several glass doors on cabinets and retreated behind the counter, offering a treat to the dog. She would let them browse; Americans shopped differently than Parisians. Music playing masked the whispered conversation between the two, but she could see the heightened color in the woman's face as the man lifted the hem of a Christening gown. The dark hair moved side-to-side and the man laughed—a husky, pleasing sound—one that conveyed much to an eaves dropper's ears.

Grissom picked up an infant's garment, a tiny white gown. "What about this one?" He asked. "Boy or girl—it looks like Swee'Pea's gown! I think we need two or three of theses." He held it in one hand and stretched his arm. "Baby Sara will be beautiful!" He reached higher for a lace covered bonnet. "And this!"

"Gil!" Sara whispered, "I am barely pregnant—we have months before we have a baby! Months! There's so much that—that might happen. We should wait."

He did not wait. He placed the bonnet on his closed hand and turned it as he appeared to inspect the work with a look of bemused amusement.

"And," Sara added, "It might be a boy. Would you want your son wearing a frilly bonnet?"

He looked as if the idea of a male child had just entered his brain. "A boy? Do you think so?" He placed the bonnet in her hand and reached for another small hat—one with delicate tiny ducks stitched in pale blue. "Blue means boy, doesn't it? We'll get one of each!"

Sara knew defeat; she smiled. This was providing an unexpected pleasure for her husband. "Okay—one of each."

Agreement was taken as surrender. He did not stop with hats, but added several "Swee'Pea" gowns to his selections. Sara's input was to pick the simplest styles, less lace, few ribbons, no ruffles, in white or pale yellow.

The shop keeper smiled at her customers, saw the worried look in the eyes of the lady, and said, "If you change your mind, you can return everything." She spoke softly, just for the lady to hear. "But most of our worries are for nothing, yes?"

A few seconds passed before Sara smiled. "Merci," she said.

After eating—a fruit plate at an open-air café and a crepe purchased from a sidewalk vender—they arrived back at the apartment; Sara checked the clock and automatically knew the time in Vegas. She called Catherine.

After the usual greetings and inquires about Grissom, Catherine explained her request, beginning with a question. "How would you like another week in Paris?" And before Sara could answer, Catherine launched into her explanation.

There had been a break in the case of the dead multi-millionaire, "Triple H" or Howard Harvell Harcourt. Another dead body had been found and identified as the man who had brought the expensive diamond watch to the pawn shop. Before the rooms were released, Nick and Greg had returned to the hotel and searched again, finding nothing, and then they turned to the room service cart which had remained inside the suite. On a slender edge, underneath the bottom of the cart, Greg found one partial print of a palm. From that finding, they knew how the murderer—or murderers—had gotten into the room. And the print matched the dead man in the morgue.

Instead of shoving the file in the stack of open cases, Nick had pursued every possible inquiry and learned of the death of Mr. Harcourt's mother four months previously—in a small village outside of Paris where she had owned a home for twenty years. Her death had added another level of wealth to a financial empire with one benefit—the old lady's money was inherited by her son, and on his death to his wife, without the corporate involvement of business lawyers and boards and stockholders. He had found a reason for the death of "Triple H".

He and Greg worked twenty hours tracking every known associate, friend, former friend, and high school classmate of the wife. Greg found her cousins—one had been a guest at the hotel, six floors below the penthouse suite, and was being watched by the police in his home town of Sarasota, Florida. The other, whereabouts unknown, spent a lot of time mountain climbing.

Catherine spoke so quickly that less than two minutes had passed when she paused for a deep breathe before resuming, "I know—it's in my gut—I know the old lady was killed. Mrs. Howard Harcourt got greedy—or Mr. Harcourt got stingy. I want you to visit this village—find out what you can about the old lady's death. Remember Madeline Klein? She thinks a lot of you and Gil—and she speaks French. She knows some guy who knows someone in the French legal system—she says she'll open the doors if you will show up. And Ecklie says to give you a week to work it out, see what you can find." Again, she paused, this time waiting for Sara to answer.

Grissom had pulled her into his chair and listened to the one-sided conversation when Sara clicked the speaker. A frown wrinkled his forehead as the request came and he was not surprised at Sara's answer.

She held up three fingers. "I'll do it." She had turned to face Grissom and seeing the expression on his face, she added, "We'll do it. Gil will go with me." She grinned and raked a hand through his hair. "Email the details and we'll see what we can find."

As she closed the phone, she squealed, a happy, delightful sound, throwing arms around Grissom. "Another week, Gil! Then only three weeks until you are home!"

_A/N: Thanks for reading-now a review would be greatly appreciated! _


	5. Chapter 5

**Murder Without Guilt Chapter 5**

Earlier than usual, Grissom hurried his steps along the street with home foremost on his mind—home when Sara was there, he thought. Otherwise the apartment was a place where he slept and kept his pets. He carried a large envelope filled with faxed pages from Catherine; she had been thorough, sending much more information than they would need to check out a death in the small town. He had already talked to the National Police, a Director General in Paris, and tonight he and Sara were meeting with a colonel of the local Gendarmerie, _La Blanche_—the white, who were responsible for local police force.

He glanced upward; he should have gotten a sweet treat or flowers. He regretted not doing so, but his haste to get home had caused him to have a certain tunnel vision. He hurried up the stairs, slowing near the top so he would not be breathless. He took a deep breath and quietly turned the key.

Sara was sitting in one of the two chairs in the apartment, her back to the door, her head down, apparently reading. Hank lifted his head and Grissom placed the bundle of papers on the table.

"Sara", he ventured softly.

Her chestnut curls came up and dark sparkling eyes met his. She rose from the chair and, without a word, stretched out her arms to him. In the next moment his arms were wonderfully engaged in holding his wife against his body. The expression on her face danced with joy and anticipation and as he held her, he knew they would not live separately again. He pulled back from the embrace so he could see her face.

"How are you," he asked. He knew the answer as he hugged her again, hearing a murmured "I'm fine."

He leaned to look in her chair. "What are you reading?" He saw the colorful, thick book she had brought with her. "You know, you are going to be a wonderful mother, Sara."

"I don't know much, Gil. That book is full of—of stuff—how to have a baby and change a diaper." She locked fingers around his neck. "Have you ever changed a diaper?"

A laugh and a shake of his head was his answer. Then he kissed her, or she kissed him, and both forgot the book and the thick envelope as she took his hand in hers and led him to the bed. Slowly, she unbuttoned his shirt as he toed his shoes and unbuckled his belt. Their pants became a puddle of denim and khaki and then he couldn't keep his eyes away from her. Her body seemed to be changing before his eyes—her hips and waist were the same—but her breasts were fuller, more round.

Telling him she had been thinking about him since lunch, she slid between the sheets and he got in next to her, head propped on his hand. When, cautiously, he touched her nipple with his finger, she drew a quick breath. He lightened his touch.

"Tender?" He asked. Sara was not the only one reading her book. "Your body is changing." His finger circled her nipple, already erect, as his palm cupped her breast. "You're filling out—here." He touched his lips to the top of her breast. "Nice," he whispered.

Sara giggled. "In your imagination," she scooted her hips against him and wrapped a leg around his. "I know you are filling out!" Her hand ran along his backside, came across his hip and dipped between them. She closed her palm around him. "This is not my imagination."

With a grunt that turned into a chuckle, he rolled onto his back bringing her with him.

"On top," she kissed his chest, his shoulder, his neck as she arranged her body, propping on her elbow, stroking his face with cool fingertips. "Is your knee bothering you?"

"No," he said with a quiet laugh before realizing her dark, honey-flecked eyes sparkled with concern—this time about his knee. "My knees are fine," he assured her.

Sara had her own plan for the afternoon—their morning lovemaking had been tempered by her frequent morning sickness and, she realized, Grissom had toned down the physical action of making love. He was loving, careful and charming and—cautious, she decided, and treated her as if she would break if loved too much. This afternoon, she meant for that to change.

Quickly, she moved downward, taking his growing erection in one hand, bending over his belly and kissing him until her mouth reached her hand. His hips lifted, a moan escaped his lungs as her tongue and finger moved in opposite directions along his penis.

"Sara," her name caught in his throat. "I can't take much of this!" His hands reached for her as she began to do something else with her fingers and mouth. The muscles in his groin contracted. "Sara," he pleaded, already becoming breathless. He knew she smiled from the touch of her lips.

In one quick movement, she stretched her body along his; sliding arms around him and rolling so he was on top, her legs captured his. He was hard, erect, sliding inside her, thrusting, as her mouth met his. He knew her body was changing—it could not be his imagination that she seemed tighter, fuller, pulling him into her with an amazing strength. In seconds, he lost the careful control he had practiced for the past week; he knew she climaxed when he felt a wave of contractions that seemed to pull him deep inside her. He heard her words whispered in his ear.

He weakened as his own pulsating muscles pounded his erection and sent fluid streaming into his wife. He was beaten, sweat dripped from his nose and landed on Sara's chin.

"Sorry," he murmured as he grasped for the sheet to wipe his face. The sound he heard, the tightening around his penis brought his eyes to hers. A broad smile was plastered across her flushed face, her pupils black from dilation, her hair damp—there was no mistaking the look on her face.

"I needed that," she replied. As he grinned, he felt her muscles tighten again. Her thumb touched his bottom lip and moved slowly from one corner to the other. His lips opened and he sucked her thumb into his mouth. He felt her tighten again.

He grinned. This woman, who had finally consented to marry him after he followed his heart, had a depth of emotions as deep as any ocean. He had long ago discovered she could go from excitement and desire to orgasm as easily as other people opened bottled water. It had been a gift waiting for his discovery. Heat radiated from every pore as she moved her hips and pulled him into a kiss that left no doubt of her intentions.

At times, he had been able to control his own passion, but not this afternoon, he thought. Her body responded to his hands and lips as he played. He adored her reception to his touch as he kissed and sucked and tasted, finally slipping one finger inside her, then a second. Her back arched, her fingers clinched his hair and his shoulder. He used the sheet to wipe away some of the fluids covering his hand and her body before he took her between his lips and using his tongue and finger, he began to apply the slightest pressure to her engorged clitoris. His tongue fluttered and licked and sucked until the groan he heard became a long growl; he held her butt with his hands as she writhed with her coming orgasm. His tongue felt the powerful explosion of contractions as she came. This time he was in control yet he felt the sudden rush of heat to his groin which occasionally happened when he did this, and while he was not hard, not in his usual way, his penis seemed to develop a direction of its own. He wanted to be inside her with more than his tongue; he pulled away and upward. A glance told him she had no consciousness of what was happening outside her own climax. He wiped a hand across his mouth, grabbed his swelling shaft and plunged, almost instantly collapsing as he felt her hips rise, her legs opened, and he was inside her.

Bliss, paradise found, ecstasy were his last thoughts for several long moments as her powerful orgasm seemed to pump life into him and, just as quickly, carried it out of him.

Sara was satiated, satisfied to the point of overindulgence—pleasingly so. She smiled at the head of hair just below her chin. Obviously, so was her husband as he appeared to be in a coma. Her nipples were as hard as rocks, painfully so, but a good pain, she decided. She had gotten what she wanted—not one but two of those mind-blowing explosive multiple orgasms Grissom was capable of bringing on. And from his position, his body had responded too. She ran her fingers through his hair and kissed him. Maybe this would show him she was not some delicate creature to be handled with kid gloves just because she was pregnant.

"I can't do it again, dear."

She giggled with a deep, well-satisfied, sultry laugh. "I got what I wanted. I may not move again until tomorrow—or the next day."

Grissom tried to move, but found his hands were still holding Sara's butt. She shifted to free him but kept her legs entwined with his and a part of them seemed to be welded together. She heard his chuckle as he raised his head. He said, "You know this is what got you into your current condition. And you have to move—we are meeting with the French policeman—a colonel—tonight at nine."

She laughed again. "I don't think I'm in any shape or form to hunt down a killer—not after this."

"Yes, you are. I'll feed you, bathe you and dress you—so we can get this meeting over with and see what kind of cooperation the French are willing to give two strangers from Las Vegas, Nevada."

They met the colonel on time, even after a nap, and walking instead of taking a taxi, and taking Hank with them because in Paris few dogs were left at home at night and all restaurants welcomed well-behaved canines. The tall man in a military uniform seemed to recognize them as they waited in the short line at the neighborhood café.

"Dr. and Mrs. Grissom, I think," he said as he extended his hand. "I have a table in a quiet corner." A wave of his hand brought the waiter who nodded and disappeared as they made their way to an outside table.

"It is my pleasure to welcome you to Paris," the colonel said, his eyes twinkled as he raised Sara's hand and covered it between his. "A very beautiful crime scene investigator, you are, Mrs. Grissom!" His English was spoken in the flawless, clipped manner of textbook grammar and classroom exercises.

When Grissom responded in French, the colonel smiled with a slight nod of approval, but spoke in English. Wineglasses and bread arrived. Sara asked for water and quickly a familiar green bottle was added to the table.

Colonel Sedlet knew much more about the Grissom's than he revealed. It was easy today, he thought; a few clicks on certain search engines and no one was unknown today—none of the cloak and dagger mysteries of twenty or thirty years ago. He directed the conversation as it was polite for him to do so. They talked of Dr. Grissom's teaching and research at the Sorbonne, of Mrs. Grissom's enjoyment of Paris on her frequent visits. He also recognized two people in love, who had recently married—his assistant had included this fact in her two page summary of the couple. They would never celebrate fifty years of marriage as he and his wife had recently done, but he recognized their love and devotion to be similar to that of he and his wife.

Platters of appetizers arrived—no meats because the colonel knew Mrs. Grissom was a vegetarian—_Edamame hummus_, _Crostini di Cavolfiore_ (cauliflower crostini), _Tarte al_ _la Tomate_ (a tomato tart), _Champignons Farcis_ (stuffed mushrooms). As they ate and talked—he was drawing a map on the paper wine coaster—a sudden possibility entered his brain when Sara sipped her water. She was pregnant, he thought. Americans were sticklers for no alcohol during pregnancy, and the contented glow on her face—he had seen the look of women in early pregnancy.

He stopped drawing the map. The village was remote but not difficult to find, however, she would need a car.

"Dr. Grissom," he asked, "will you go with your wife? A retired criminalist is also welcome. The more minds work together, the more we accomplish, yes?"

_A plateau de fromages et fruits_ (a platter of cheese and fruits), three cheeses, apples, pears, and grapes, arrived at their table.

His offer of a car and driver was accepted. "One of my men—his parents live near this village—he can drive for you, only twenty minutes away, but he will not interfere." The colonel made a small frown. "He is—what do you call him—a supervisor, not investigator!"

_A/N: Okay, readers-here's your chance! This story can end in two more chapters-the two crimes are linked-the end. OR if we get **lots of reviews **from those who read but chose not to review (and you know who you are), then the story continues-it is up to you! We are in three different locations now, life goes on! But this story can end sooner-or later. It is up to you-yes, its blackmail, but we need encouragement in your words!_


	6. Chapter 6

_For your weekend enjoyment!_

**Murder Without Guilt Chapter 6**

If there was a speed limit on the _autoroute_, Sara knew the driver was exceeding it as traffic and the landscape seemed to pass her window in a blur of color. Their driver, the supervisor sent by Colonel Sedlet spoke English but when Grissom answered in French, the conversation continued in that language. Sara understood the explanation of his job, head of transportation, which explained the car—large by French standards, fast, and immaculate. She had soon tired of trying to translate and leaned back in her seat looking at the passing gritty industrial buildings which changed into sprawling suburbs as they left central Paris.

Hank had been suitably ensconced with his pet-sitter arrangement, a family-run business near the apartment. The kitten was indifferent, ignoring their departure by stretching on their bed.

Sara had read everything Catherine had sent and her theory seemed possible. Enough money made anything possible, she knew. From what the Colonel had said, there was not much in the local record; and the body had been cremated. The good news—photographs had been taken at the scene by two local policemen or the gendarme, and they would meet the men who would take them to the house. Plans were to spend one night; again, the Colonel had made arrangement for a room in a bed and breakfast.

Sara smiled as she listened to the two men. No one could say the French were not cooperating but these two had decided it was far-fetched, not impossible, but unlikely that what appeared as an accidental fall could be an arranged, well-planned murder.

The car slowed; the driver spoke in French, adding "walk the legs" as he turned into a parking lot of a rest stop—Aires alongside the highway. As she headed inside, Sara noticed the cigarette appearing in the driver's hand. The stops were more mini-mall when compared to American rest stops. This one sold fresh fruit, vegetables, wine, cheeses, souvenirs from the cheap to the very expensive, and offered a restaurant with an extensive menu.

Their trip continued southwest with a turn onto a much smaller highway. The car slowed on winding curves and accelerated on straight-ways as they passed small farms and houses, most set well off the road. Slowing as they entered a small town, the driver explained this was his boyhood home where his parents still lived.

"Twenty minutes," he announced, "to the village of Douay." He continued in English, "It is very small," he chuckled. "Crime is one of automobiles and farm animals." It took a minute for Sara to laugh as she realized what he meant. In French, he asked if they should stop at the bed and breakfast and when Sara answered _"oui s'il vous plait,"_ (yes, please), he made one call on his phone.

The tone of his voice caused Grissom to glance at Sara and grin. Her translation was slower but she recognized obvious flirting in any language.

The French man smiled as he finished his call. "She is old girlfriend," he explained in English. "And now she has the bed and breakfast, a few rooms to rent when visitors come. A nice place with excellent food." He laughed again. "But not for me—the small town, no! I enjoy Paris."

He slowed as he approached clustered houses, swerving to avoid chickens in the road. Several women standing beside the road showed interest as they passed.

"Everyone will know we have arrived," the driver acknowledged as he gave a brief nod to the women.

"_Ou' est la maison?"_ (where is the house?) Sara asked in French.

He pointed ahead. "Outside the village—a large house," he paused. "I do not know the English to describe it but an old family home for the summer, I think. The dead woman came twenty years ago to live when she—she _achetẻ_—purchased the house."

Soon he pulled to a stop beside a police car and two motorcycles, also marked as police. Sara thought the building was the local police department until she realized the three men were waiting in front of the bed and breakfast. She reached for her official identification as Grissom opened the car door.

"I'll get the bags." He nodded toward the men. "You are the official here—I'm here to—carry bags or whatever." He grinned as he squeezed her hand.

If the men expected Grissom to be in charge, they gave no indications as introductions were made and Sara spoke in French and they responded in English. They laughed and agreed they needed practice in a second language. The driver's former girlfriend and owner of the bed and breakfast had prepared lunch and took the Grissom's inside as the policemen remained outside and smoked. Their driver was obviously known and his importance in the community well established, reinforced by his arrival with the Americans. Sara heard "investigator" and "Las Vegas" mentioned before she stepped inside.

The house was a surprise; outside it appeared as a small whitewashed dwelling with shutter covered windows on either side of the porch which was large enough for four pots of overflowing flowers. Inside, each downstairs room opened to a common open-air courtyard of tile and flowers and vines; a large table placed for lunch sat in its center. On the second level an open walkway surrounded the courtyard.

The owner guided them to a small stairway and opened a door to a garden of color, walls of brilliant green and peach, a bed covered with a coverlet of the same colors, windows opened to a balcony filled with sunlight and dazzling pink, purple, and yellow flowers. The bathroom, while spacious, was painted with the same bright colors. Sara's eyes met Grissom's and he winked and grinned. He might need to wear his sunglasses in this room—his comment anytime Sara mentioned using vivid colors in their house.

Meals were rarely quick in France, and lunch proved to be even longer when one of the local policemen asked about Harcourt's murder in Vegas. Grissom hid his amusement as Sara described the death, leaving no details untold. He had not forgotten her ability to remember particulars and fine points but it had been awhile since he had been her audience. A few times he translated, but she handled their questions and exclamations with expertise, and his smile was equal parts proud teacher and pleased spouse. When she described the disarticulated hand, held to the arm by twisted tissue of the wrist, the Parisian supervisor's shout of repugnance cause the others to laugh. She stopped her story, promising to add more details later, when the owner of the house came with desserts.

As they ate apple and custard tarts, the older local policeman brought out the brief file on the death of Mrs. Harcourt. They did have photographs and thanks to digital cameras, they had taken nearly one hundred shots of the body, the stone path, the blood trail, even photos of the car in the driveway, and printed all of them.

"We kept these stones—the ones with blood on them," the older man said as Sara studied the pictures. "And her shoes. I brought everything in the trunk."

"Has anyone been in the house since the death?" Sara asked.

"The son and his wife were here when the lady died but only a few days. Later, they had it cleaned. The house is closed up—but we have the key." The man smiled as he reached into a pocket and pulled out a large brass colored key.

The key helped to bring an end to lunch because everyone wanted to see the house now that the owner's death might be murder; or because Sara promised to give more details of the grisly murder of the woman's son.

The motorcycles led the way with the police car following Sara, Grissom, and the Paris supervisor. He had heard too much of the story to drive away. Sara knew they were a seldom seen parade in the small village as people on the sidewalk and in the handful of stores seemed to stop whatever they were doing as their two-car, two-motorcycle motorcade traveled along the main street. Difficult to keep secrets in a small place, she thought.

As he could do at times, Grissom seemed to read her mind. "Looks like everyone knows we are here."

"And they might remember strangers arriving four months ago," Sara added.

The house stood behind a high wall several miles from the edge of the village. In the past, gardeners had planted and pruned shrubbery to cover the wall but in a few months the greenery had become a tangle of growth. One of the men on the motorcycles opened the gate and they proceeded down a narrow cobblestone driveway which circled and disappeared behind the main house to a small building in back. The house was a classical three-story one with wrought-iron balustrades at the upstairs windows. A vine covered porch marked the front door. Once cars stopped, everyone gathered evidence kits, boxes, cameras, and photographs and the first responder on the day of the owner's death pointed to the spot where he found blooded stones on the pathway. The missing stones had been replaced.

Sara looked at Grissom—if stones had been replaced, she was doubtful anything in the house was left for discovery.

They slipped shoe covers on feet before opening the front door. By now Sara's understanding of French had improved as the men slowed their conversation for her benefit and one would often speak in English. As the door unlocked, a hush came over all of them, broken by the creaking of the door as the older policeman pushed it open. He stretched an arm toward Sara as permission for her to enter first.

The floor was bare stone; Sara remembered carpet under the body. The others entered behind her keeping quiet as they came. She walked around the area of the floor where she knew the body had lain. She caught a glimpse of a pale yellow silk-walled dining room and a glittering array of china and crystal as well as a large table. The room they had entered gave a first impression of a formal living room but was actually an entrance hall, she realized. She walked around the room giving the four men time to talk and decide to use the dining room as a work place. The room she was in had doors opening to a wide patio which was surrounded by the wings of the house giving the home a U-shape.

She left the entrance and entered a wide hallway with stairs on one side and several closed doors. Hearing the men in the dining room—they were opening cases and boxes, talking about hooking up a computer—she decided to open the first door and pulled gloves from her pocket.

The first room was dark; she flipped a switch and several lamps came on. A library, she thought, with high shelves lined with expensive looking books. Dark green draperies covered the windows. Looking upward, Sara saw the ceiling was decorated with gold painted cherubs. For a minute, she stood still, laughed, and shook her head at the formal arrangement of the room topped with chubby baby angels. Her eyes went around the room, finding nothing obviously out of place, finally stopping at a portrait.

The lone woman was in a red evening gown, her upswept hair the color of pale yellow, and held in place by two jeweled butterfly clips. The woman looked nothing like her son nor the dead body in the photographs. She studied the face in the painting, deciding it dated several decades in the past.

The next room was the one she sought—the bedroom of an older woman—carpeted with a thick rug, a bed low to the floor, an old fashioned clock and china figurines on a table, a chaise longue near the window, a second table covered with framed photographs. She picked up one then another. She thought one of a child was probably Howard Harcourt dressed for a special occasion. She found none of his wife. Sara was so engrossed in her search for the unknown—looking under the bed—she did not hear Grissom's quiet approach.

"Hey, finding anything interesting?"

Sara rocked back on her heels. "This place has been cleaned with a toothbrush—not even a hair or old tissue under the bed!" She pointed to another door. "Closet?"

Grissom extended a hand to help her up. "Those three have enough equipment with them to find a mosquito on the moon." All he heard from Sara was an agreeing hum as she opened the door of the closet and fumbled a few seconds for a light. Her eyes found the shoe rack first.

"Gil," the tone of her voice was enough for him to realize she had found something. "You've heard everything—walk me through what we know." She disappeared into the closet.

He recited the known specifics without embellishment as he stood in the doorway. She was inspecting each shoe on the rack by turning it over in her hand, doing this a dozen times before she turned to him.

"The shoes are wrong—the high heels. Pierre said he thought the shoes caused her to fall outside—on the cobblestones—shoes inappropriate for a woman her age, he said. There was a mark on one of the stones. He thought it was caused by her heel when she fell." She held up a shoe. "She wore flats at home—not heels, Gil. We need to look at those shoes."

A simple comparison of shoes—the sizes did not match…

The dining room had been turned into a state-of-the-art information finding lab. Sara was impressed. In Vegas, they carried equipment in a large vehicle; the French had the latest electronic devices and tools for everything from fingerprinting supplies and a portable fuming chamber to micro vacuums and a high-def laser scanning camera and access to world-wide data banks—all hand-held or scaled down versions to fit in small trunks.

Within minutes they had accessed the current Mrs. Harcourt's financial records and reconstructed the scene of the older Mrs. Harcourt's death from photographs. Using specialized cameras, an image of the body appeared on the floor of the entrance room, the shoes off her feet, and reproductions of the bloody smear prints were flashed on the wall where fingers had tried to stop a fall.

Even the supervisor of transportation was eager to assist taking instructions from the local team. Grissom picked up a shoe and a bottle of ninhydrin.

Sara grinned as she asked, "Think you can remember how to do that?"

He grunted as an answer.

Sara and Edmond, the youngest and the proclaimed electronics expert, worked with the cobblestones. All three local men had profusely apologized in a very professional and serious manner when the high-heel shoes had been found to be the wrong size. No longer seeing their efforts as an improbable investigation of murder, they worked quietly and swiftly. And as Edmond manipulated images of the original stones onto the image of the head wound, he was certain they did not match.

"The hair covers too much to be certain," he explained as he attempted to remove some of the layers in the photograph. "It is here," he pointed to a discernible part of the image on screen. "Can you see the indention—not smooth like the stone." He shook his head. "No photographs afterwards—no autopsy."

Grissom leaned over Sara's shoulder. He had found nothing on the shoes but smudges. "You think it might be a pipe wrench? A—_un tuyau_—_a clẻ pour plomberie_—a wrench for plumbing?" He frowned when Edmond appeared puzzled. "I'm not saying that correctly."

Sara made hand-motions of gripping and turning. Edmond's face brightened. "Ahh—yes, a pipe tool." He called for the other men, explaining the potential weapon.

Sara made such a loud sigh all five men looked at her. She shook her head, complaining in English, "Even if we find a weapon, it will be like the shoes—no prints, nothing to tie what happened here to the wife—the widow. We can't put her here before she arrived with her husband. Victim—we got; crime scene we got—but we can't put the suspect here." She placed her elbows on the table and rubbed her eyes with her fingers.

The four French men looked at Grissom. He shrugged, saying _"Elle est enceinte et fatiguẻe."_ (She's pregnant and tired.)

A chorus of "ahhh" came from the men. Edmond quickly left the room while the others waited for his return or waited for Sara to say something. Bottles of water and several chocolate bars appeared with Edmond's return.

"For you," he said, "and rest to tell details of the murder in Las Vegas, yes?"

Sara laughed and accepted his offer of food and drink. She was tired—Grissom had used "fatigue" and another word to describe her; her brain could not translate. But as she unwrapped the chocolate, she said, "Where was I? _Oừ j`etais_?"

"The hand," Pierre answered as he twisted his own wrist.

As they ate chocolate and drank bottles of sparkling Saint-Geron, Sara continued the story of the very wealthy man taped and strapped to a chair in one of the expensive hotels suites in Las Vegas. She recounted their search of other rooms and added speculation of how the murderers manage to leave by the balcony probably with mountain climbing equipment which caused a chorus of excited exclamations and general agreements of a very complicated case.

Grissom leaned back in his chair and listened as Sara talked. She was mesmerizing—and cute—as she switched from English to French and back to English in telling the story. He looked at the other men; they were as captured as schoolchildren with a new toy. His smile grew as she answered a question.

No one seemed to notice late afternoon had arrived and shadows deepened outside the house…

_A/N: Thanks for reading, and another big thank you to all who review and give us encouragement! You're the best!_


	7. Chapter 7

**Murder Without Guilt Chapter 7**

There was only one café in the small village and, for a time, the group of four men and one woman chatted about nothing in particular. Sara was satisfied to watch; law enforcement people, no matter where their home, always had a great deal in common, like people who collected old cars or worked in banks. The local policemen made no secret of the investigation into the possible murder of Mrs. Harcourt. Of the dozen or so patrons in the café, all knew of the lady but did not know her.

For twenty years the wealthy woman had come into the post office, purchased almost nothing locally, and had employed three local women as housekeepers and several men as gardeners, but no one called her a friend or even a neighbor. Someone knew where to find the last housekeeper and, using the café phone, called the woman. She agreed to meet the group the next morning at the house.

The food was hot, delicious, prepared differently from food in Paris; served in heavy white platters and passed around the table, Sara ate bean soup, potatoes cooked with cheese, a pear tart, and bread—several kinds of fresh, heavy breads to dip in the soup or sop into the dark liquid surrounding the rabbit. Silently she rolled her eyes as Grissom ate pieces of meat in the way of the locals. The rabbit reminded her of her kitten, so she kept her eyes elsewhere—the poor bunny had probably been happily eating in someone's garden earlier in the day, she thought.

At some point, Sara realized she was so tired her mind could no longer translate much less follow the fast conversation among the men. She placed her fork across her plate, but the men took no notice as they continued an animated discussion, eating, drinking wine, and bringing others into their conversation. Grissom was enjoying this, she thought. A dozen possibilities became more questions as they conversed, agreed, and disputed what was known and unknown. Sara's eyes drooped.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. Grissom was saying something which caused the policemen to stand. She heard agreement and something about _"demain"_ (tomorrow), and the same word used by Grissom earlier _"enceinte"_ was said by the older policeman. She would have to use her translator to look up the word in English.

"I'm exhausted," Sara said as Grissom wrapped an arm around her back.

"I should have been paying attention—sorry."

They walked away from the splash of light provided by the café and into night shadows of the small village. Most shops and homes were dark and silent as they passed. Sara slipped her arm around Grissom and they walked without saying a word. Then, gently, he slowed, turning toward her and pulled her toward him; when his lips met hers his kiss was soft, tasting of wine. He pulled her into a hard embrace, kissing her for a long time in a way that gave her strength.

When they arrived at the bed and breakfast, the key opened the front door and the stillness of the house told them the owner was asleep, or tucked in another part of the house. She had left a note about breakfast and Grissom scribbled something as an answer. Reaching their room, Grissom opened it for her and Sara simply entered and stopped in front of the open balcony doors. A faint fragrance of flowers filled her nose as she breathed; she closed her eyes and took another deep breath as she tried to define the scent.

Grissom came to her, placed his hands on her arms and guided her to the bed, where he sat her down. He leaned forward and touched Sara's cheek; her eyes closed, she felt his lips brush hers. She smiled and his lips return, firmer, intending to stay. She leaned back against the bed where the brightly colored coverlet had been folded back and he pressed in, his warm mouth playing against her lips, moving from Sara's mouth to the hollows and softness of her neck, the ridge of her jaw, and back to her mouth.

He pulled away and rose from the bed after a few minutes; his hand never left her body as he leaned forward and removed his shoes and socks, unbuckled and dropped his pants, and pulled his shirt over his head. He turned and began unbuttoning her shirt, letting his palm rest on the bare skin of her chest above her bra as he pushed it from her shoulders. After removing her bra, he began to kiss her again, his hands roaming. His mouth climbed and roamed as he held and touched her and finally removed her pants. She could feel him, nudging against her, touching her in the most intimate way.

"Oh," she said, more a quiet puff of air than a sound of passion as Grissom entered her, giving a small moan as he pushed into her. She felt herself around him, holding him as he moved inside her. When he was all the way in, she lifted her hips to meet his and took his head between her hands and pulled his mouth to hers. Her tongue touched his teeth, sucking, taking ownership of his body as they began to move together.

The deep arching motions of her pelvis communicated her need to him. She felt him try to slow, try to control and prolong their pleasure, but her body refused to allow it. She felt his resistance dissolve and soon his powerful strokes began; inside she felt she was a wet pool and a smooth tongue of bliss warmed her when he came. She felt the strong spasms of her body pulling him, keeping him inside her.

As quickly as she climaxed, Sara slipped into sleep, her chin resting against Grissom's shoulder, his hand, heavy, warm, and welcome, rested just below her breasts, keeping her near him, anchored with him in the middle of the bed. Before the blackness of slumber closed her brain to conscious thought, it occurred to her how much she loved this—sleeping with her husband.

The first time Sara woke, she had been dreaming of dead bodies and blood pooling in a familiar way. The darkness of a strange room, the wind blowing outside, her cold feet and the warm body next to her drove the dream out of her mind. She sensed Grissom's body; hearing his quiet breathing, she rolled against him and slipped her arm over his chest. She felt oddly safe; a feeling of ease and languor suffused her and she lapsed back into sleep.

The second time Sara woke, there had been a change in the darkness—a soft light edged around the dark and she knew it was almost dawn. Covers had slipped from the bed and Grissom had curled around her body, arms around her chest, legs entwined with hers. She shifted enough to reach the sheet and covered them both. But she was restless—hunger, an aching shoulder, and the need to pee made her fidget. Hoping not to wake her husband, she slipped from the bed.

Their clothes were scattered around the room in a weird whirlpool of shirts, shoes, and pants. She picked up Grissom's shirt and pulled it over her head. The tiny balcony was filled with potted flowers but by pulling a chair to its door, she could settle among the cushions and pillows and watch the sun gradually brighten the day. It was quiet enough to hear the scrabbling sounds of a small animal running on the ground.

Pushing aside thoughts of all they had done the day before—she had doubts they would be able to tie this death to the one in Vegas—she let her hand rest on her belly. What was happening, unseen, unheard, and without her conscious control frightened her more than any crime scene she had ever worked. She was having a baby.

In all her life, Sara could not remember wanting a baby—not until Grissom, and even then, not while they both worked in the crime lab. Not until Costa Rica, not until Grissom found her in the middle of a rainforest, not until she heard others talk of their children—people who did serious research and found immense joy in their children—did she begin to think about having a family. The thought of a real family, one with a child, Grissom's child, took root and grew amid the doubts and denials in her head.

Watching as the dark shadows became trees and dim objects became cows in a distance pasture, Sara remembered whispering words to Grissom the second night after his arrival in the research camp. She was not using any birth control method and his response had been to grin like a satisfied Cheshire cat, laced his fingers with hers and said "Okay." It would be another two weeks before a red dot showed on her underwear that she felt a powerful mixture of regret and relief. Despite her mind's disclaimers of "I'm too old," or "I can't" or "I'm not sure I want a baby", her body seemed to ache with something lost.

She knew he had always been well aware of her monthly cycle—and the next day, he had followed her to the community bathhouse, waited until she finished, and taken her for a walk to a high mountain meadow. There, in the middle of thousands of wildflowers, made even brighter and more magical by the tiniest hummingbirds, they talked. Research, the rainforest, their home and dog in Vegas, and finally, Grissom said:

"I've thought a long time about having a family—you, me, a baby—sometimes laughed about it, but most of the time, I hoped it would happen. Sort of a gift, a surprise when we least expected it to happen." He was holding her hand, but his eyes were watching the small birds. "I'm old, Sara, I'm not sure I can do my part—in the beginning or later. Twenty years from now, I'll be approaching very old age—probably senility." At that he turned to face her, an amused smile on his face. "And you will be young and beautiful and sixty years old."

Sara had stared at him, unsure of what he was trying to tell her. Her silence kept him talking.

"What I mean is this—a little girl who looks like her mother," his finger touched her lip. "With this mouth I love to kiss." His finger moved to a lock of hair, "with this same beautiful hair I love so much. I will do all I can—and enjoy doing it—to make this happen." He paused and placed a kiss on her forehead. "But we're not teenagers—it may take a while, and it might not happen."

His consent, she thought, agreement with her desire. She nodded.

"And," he continued, "we should get married. I'm sort of old-fashioned about a child having parents—married parents."

They did marry—the next week in a quick civil ceremony with two of the other researchers as witnesses. And then the offer to teach in Paris came. And the request to return to Vegas came. Sara's body did not cooperate—too long using birth control and her body had forgotten what fertility meant, she thought. An exhausting physical gave her an excellent health report; even Grissom had been checked for sperm count, but nothing happened. Then in Paris, it happened. In their excitement to be with one another after weeks of absence, something happened—a miracle from God, or an egg produced as hormones adjusted, or just because it takes time—and two weeks later, she knew she was pregnant.

So immersed in her thoughts, Sara did not hear Grissom until he was standing next to her, saying her name. He crooked a finger, motioning for her to move; he took her place in the chair and pulled her into his lap.

"What's going on?" He asked. "You were a million miles away."

Taking a few seconds to adjust to his arms surrounding her, feeling the soft fabric of his boxers against her thigh, Sara smiled. "Not a million—just Costa Rica and Vegas and Paris. We've traveled a lot of miles."

She felt his lips touch her forehead. "I realized yesterday, this will be your last trip. I'll finish the term in less than four weeks." His hand had found the edge of his shirt and had worked its way to her belly. He grinned. "Good timing on your part, I think. I'll be home as soon as I can pack Heather and Hank on an airplane." His hand rested, his fingers spread, touching the crest of her hip on either side. He kissed her again. "And what do we do next?" The heal of his hand gently pressed against her pubis, cupping his palm and fingers around her belly. "About this—baby Grissom?" His mouth formed a smile, one of wonder, amazement, and simple happiness.

Sara whispered, "I'm scared to death, Gil. I do not know a thing about babies—except where they come out. So much can happen…"

"Nothing's going to happen, honey. And you'll make a wonderful mother—look at Hank. He's a good, well-behaved dog—mostly due to your care."

She giggled. "You are comparing our dog to a baby, Gil!"

"Well, isn't it similar? Feed them, keep them warm, train to do tricks—give them a good name. It's simple."

Sara kissed him, her deep, husky laugh reaching his ears and mouth at the same time. And something he did with his hand underneath the shirt, a move of no more than an inch, became erotic, instantly arousing her. He laced his hand into her hair and a flush of sensation spread through her body. He kissed her neck.

Her bare bottom against his leg seemed to heat, inflame, and immediately she felt dampness spread between her legs, to the warm skin of his leg. A sudden urgency got them from chair to bed, but the shirt she wore was not removed. In a hurry, Grissom pushed the boxers down where they remained around his knees. Sara made a sound like an animal's grunt, and very quickly came a soft powerful explosion of her orgasm and she lost contact with the world in its sweet rush. Then, she felt him come and the walls of her vagina squeezed at his erection, as if to suck every drop of fluid from him.

When it was over, they were both surprised at their impulsive and unexpected coupling and lay together for a minute. Sara was the first to chuckle with Grissom joining her as he struggled to pull up his boxers.

"We need to go to work—eat breakfast—get dressed," she laughed. "But all I can think about is sex—having sex, jumping your bones, getting laid, hiding the pickle, when can we do it again!" She rolled against his shoulder, shaking with laughter, as he wrapped arms around her.

He had stopped laughing as he said: "We need to have all the sex we can—when we have a baby we may be too exhausted for anything but sleep." The way he said it—serious, solemn, with such sincerity in his voice—caused Sara to laugh harder, giggling until she hiccupped.

"Wait a minute," Grissom said, "hiding the pickle—what is that? I thought pregnant women ate pickles."

Sara laughed so hard she snorted, her body shaking, tears running down her face; she managed to say, "I love you, Gil!"

_A/N: Enjoy! And some of you have never figured out the pickle and pregnancy connection! Review? Not? Ahhh-come on, we need your encouragement! _


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: _Sorry for the delay with this chapter-enjoy!_

**Murder Without Guilt Chapter 8**

It was a cool, clear day; huge, puffy clouds sailed across the blue sky as Sara and Grissom left the bed and breakfast with the Parisian supervisor. Before Sara and Grissom left their bedroom, they could hear the owner and the supervisor laughing somewhere in the house.

"Maybe he spent the night," Sara whispered with a giggle.

An hour later, this time with one motorcycle escort, they drove to the house to find the former housemaid waiting on the porch. She had dressed for the occasion—not as a maid or housekeeper but as a witness in court—wearing a dark blue suit with matching purse and shoes. Sara's first thought was how much she looked like a nun, one with curious blue eyes.

Brief introductions were made; Lucie Phillips had worked for seven years for Mrs. Harcourt. The local men explained the purpose of their request to meet her and after several questions, she nodded and the front door was unlocked. As she entered, Mrs. Phillips pointed to the spot where she had noticed blood. Sara noted her finger marked the exact location. Inside, the woman was able to point out where she had found the body—again, she was very accurate.

After a few more questions and answers, the group migrated into the dining room where there were chairs for everyone. Mrs. Phillips spoke in French to the policemen while Grissom translated for Sara—he had laughed several days prior saying he could now think in French instead of English.

Mrs. Phillips said: for years Mrs. Harcourt had been a source of irritation to the people in the village because of the way she isolated herself and the grounds around her house. She had been a source of much gossip but in recent years interest had dwindled. "Not a recluse" Mrs. Phillips insisted; the wealthy woman had not turned her back on the world, just found fewer reasons to go out and fewer friends to visit. There were frequent visits to Paris, a week in London or the Italian coast every year. But, no, Mrs. Harcourt did not visit America—the son came to visit her at least twice a year.

The older policeman asked, "Can you think of anyone who might want Mrs. Harcourt dead?"

The woman's eyes briefly met Sara's before turning downward. _"sa belle-fille"_ (her daughter-in-law), the housemaid said. She spoke softly as if betraying a well-kept secret. Explaining further, she had no specific reason for thinking this other than her dead employer had an extreme dislike for the younger Mrs. Harcourt. _"J'ai ẻtẻ surprise elle est venue pour l'anniversaire"_ (I was surprised she came for the birthday.)

Questions were asked about a pipe wrench—a pipe tool—used for plumbing work. She did not know of one; plumbers would bring their own tools when requested; she had not seen or used one.

Mrs. Phillips related how Mrs. Harcourt had spent the days leading up to her death. A trip to a spa, well known for its mineral waters, had been a birthday gift to herself. Finally, they presented photographs of the shoes. Mrs. Phillips could not be positive, but shook her head in doubt. Again, she looked at Sara and back to the older local policeman. She asked a question.

"Sara, she would like for you to go with her," he said.

The two women, followed by the men, went upstairs where Mrs. Phillips opened one of several doors along the hallway. As eyes adjusted and light from the doorway filtered into the dark room, Sara realized this room was also a closet, filled with dresses and shoes. One of the policemen located a light switch. Racks of clothes lined the wall; shelves of shoes filled the middle of the room.

Sara could hear the sighs of all the men. But Mrs. Phillips walked around the room, shaking her head. This time her voice sounded more confused. She could not be certain, she said. Mrs. Harcourt bought shoes and clothes with every trip to Paris—and recently, some of her purchases were _"aux petits or grands" _(too small or large).

Again, Sara heard the air leave the lungs of the men. "What kind of murderer leaves their shoes?" She turned, spreading her hands, exasperated with dead ends.

Perplexed, and at a loss for words for the first time, the group ended up sitting at the dining room table again while Mrs. Phillips made tea in the kitchen.

"Someone did kill the woman," Grissom said, shaking his head. "But no weapon. Shoes mean nothing. No suspect other than the dislike of her son's wife—we don't know if the daughter-in-law was even in the area! She arrived with her husband, didn't she?"

Pierre was nodding his head in agreement while he opened a small laptop computer. "It is important to find a murderer," he mumbled in English as he struck keys in a fast two-fingered technique. A long silence followed as he continued searching; he dialed a number on his phone and spoke in rapid French.

The French men smiled, agreeing with the one-sided conversation. Shortly, Pierre related the complete conversation. By calling the largest, and most expensive, spa-hotel in the area, he had located the one where Mrs. Harcourt had spent her last day—and she had not been alone. He had just talked with a spa employee who remembered Mrs. Harcourt. He translated; the excitement in his voice running his words together, "It is remembered because of much shouting and disagreement between Mrs. Harcourt," he clapped his hands together, "and the younger Mrs. Harcourt!" Leaning back in his chair he raised his clenched hands in a salute.

Sara nearly laughed out loud. He sounded like an Agatha Christie character solving a murder mystery, complete with accented English but missing the moustache.

The young man looked at his boss, "We go there next, sir!" Sara wasn't sure if he had asked a question or stated a fact but within minutes they were outside. Pierre led the way on the motorcycle and Grissom, Sara, and their driver followed. Mrs. Phillips was driven into the village by the older policeman who would meet them at the hotel.

The narrow paved road twisted around small farms and merged into a slightly wider highway before reaching an open valley of vineyards and clusters of trees as far as one's eyes could see. The driver slowed as he pointed to the rolling hills at the end of the valley.

"The spa is there—nearly to the top. Can you see the white buildings? It has been a spa since Roman times—to keep one young or healthy." He chuckled; his hand raking his thinning hair. "Or to grow hair!"

Even this highway meandered around miles of grapevines growing on posts and stretched wires, the occasional house set away from the road at the end of a long driveway. Sara thought it looked like a scene from a movie—almost an imaginary illusion of bright green fields and vines splashed with subtle gray stone walls and pale gold buildings. As they drove, they saw no one yet the fields were meticulous maintained. As gradually as the highway entered the valley, the abrupt turn of the hotel's drive into the hills was surprising—steep, almost precipitous in its curves. Mirrors had been placed high on trees to reflect what was unseen around sharp bends.

Suddenly, they came to an imposing gate; one that had obviously not been closed in years but was massive and magnificent in size and elaborate scrolling ironwork. Sara leaned forward as Grissom made a surprised grunt as the hotel came into view. The gate was a small indication of what was in front of them. A manicured lawn, easily the size of two football fields stretched to the edge of the roadway and surrounding forest.

To say the building was a mansion would be akin to saying the Grand Canyon was a deep hole in the ground. The white stone hotel soared six or seven floors with towers and turrets and windows at each corner; the windows were set back into the stone in intricate diagonal patterns—it took a few seconds for Sara to realize the panes were stained glass.

"Wow," Sara whispered as the car and motorcycle eased along the circle driveway to an immense portico where uniformed men stood at attention as they arrived. As soon as the car stopped, the doors were opened, a hand extended to Sara as she got out of the car. It was obvious they were expected as a man stepped forward to introduce himself as the hotel's general manager.

As quickly as they had arrived, the group was moved through the lobby; Sara and Grissom covered their curiosity and amazement at the size of the lobby and its furnishings. Everything looked old—everything was old, Sara thought, but in flawless condition—silks and brocades in creamy white, dark wood tables, lamps and chandeliers in black ironwork. Chairs and sofas were arranged before fireplaces so large that several cars could have parked on the hearth.

The manger directed them to the working side of the hotel and to an elevator that took them to the spa on the top floor. The view of the valley was spectacular overlooking an old growth forest before it ended and vineyards began. The vast size of the spa was astonishing; a swimming pool seemed to vanish over the rooftop edge. Umbrellas shaded lounging chairs and everyone appeared to be wearing a white towel but Sara was certain several women wearing nothing had disappeared behind billowing curtains. She glanced at Grissom. He gave no indication of noticing his surroundings but she knew he had seen everything they passed.

They were taken into a small room where quiet music played and within minutes, the manager returned with two employees.

Two hours later, they were back in the car rolling down the steep driveway, having said goodbye to the two policemen from the village, promising to send a complete report of developments. Sara noticed a transformation in Grissom as the two women had been interviewed. His blue eyes seemed to have a hard focus; he was thinking like a crime scene investigator again, a way of being she thought he had erased in Costa Rica. Sara knew he did not see the breathtaking beauty—the trees, the ferns and wildflowers, farm lands and vineyards—his mind was processing what they had heard.

Grissom had climbed into the backseat with her; the driver seemed to recognize the need for quiet as Grissom pulled out a notepad and began writing. Sara had seen him work like this before. His notes, scribbled in penmanship that was almost unreadable to anyone else, would cover a page. He wrote in one corner, circled what he had written, moved to another space on the paper and wrote again. By the time the car left the valley and headed toward Paris, he had filled two pages and had not spoken one word since leaving the hotel. His eyes closed but Sara knew he was not sleeping.

Knowing the area, the driver took several local highways to the _autoroute _which got them closer to Paris. When he mentioned "rest stop" Sara immediately agreed. Her voice brought Grissom's eyes open.

"I could use a walk," he said as he opened the door, held out a hand to Sara and helped her out. He smiled. "Don't leave without me," he laughed. "I'm going…" he waved a hand.

Sara nodded and watched as Grissom headed across the parking lot—to think, putting pieces of a puzzle together. She had seen him do this dozens of times.

"Where is he going?" their driver asked.

Sara laughed. "He needs some fresh air—he'll return."

She headed inside leaving the driver leaning against the car, smoking as he watched Grissom leave the paved lot and walk into the shade of trees surrounding the rest stop.

When Sara returned, she did not think the driver had moved except to hold his cigarette. She handed him a bottle of water.

"Does he walk long distance?"

"No, just to think," Sara answered. She ripped open a bag of dried fruit offering it to him.

He chuckled. "Maybe Dr. Grissom needs this," he held up a slice of dried apple.

Thirty minutes later Grissom did return and the jaunty swing of his arms was enough for Sara to know he had reached a decision or put together this puzzle. The grin on his face had returned to the relaxed one of the visiting lecturer.

He kissed Sara when she offered him a water bottle. He said, "It's not that complicated once we found the younger Mrs. Harcourt." His hand waved between the front and the rear door of the car and with a lift of her eyebrow, Sara got in the back seat. Grissom joined the driver in the front seat.

Within minutes, Sara settled into the seat, adjusted the head rest, and closed her eyes. She heard Grissom's voice, speaking French, and knew he was explaining logistics, connecting the dots. Her head rested against the window; her mind refused to participate in translating the conversation and soon she was asleep.

_A/N: Next chapter soon! Reviews appreciated! Thanks to all who have encouraged our writing; we have re-written this story and right now, we plan to end it with two or three more chapters as the murder mystery is solved. _


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Another chapter for your weekend reading!_

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 9**

Grissom and Sara were generous in their thanks and appreciation to the Parisian supervisor, inviting him in for coffee or tea or wine, but he refused, insisting he had a wife who would be looking for him. He hugged Sara, kissing both cheeks before releasing her.

Shaking Grissom's hand, he said, "You have a beautiful wife—and soon—beautiful children, I am sure!" He winked at Sara as he stepped into the driver's seat.

"You told him?"

The guilty look on Grissom's face was her answer. He said, "It sort of slipped out." He grinned. "I'm kind of proud of my wife—not just because she's having a baby." He leaned over and took her bag and managed to kiss her as he straightened up. "Let's go lay this out for Catherine. I've got a plan."

Those plans were postponed once they opened the apartment door. The kitten heard the rattle of the key and was stretching herself awake when they entered. Sara played with the cat as Grissom threw bags onto the bed and then proceeded to follow the bags with his body. He groaned and kicked his shoes off his feet, punched his pillow and declared he needed a nap.

Sara took the kitten to the bed, placed her on Grissom's back, removed the two bags from the bed, and stripped off her shirt.

"I'm taking a shower. Then I'll go get Hank," she said.

She heard a mumbling noise that sounded like "okay" as she stepped into the small bathroom. The ride back into Paris had exhausted her; fatigue encased her like a comfortable old robe.

This morning she had wanted to stay in bed forever—and smiled at her thought—it wasn't fatigue this morning. She looked at her reflection in the mirror above the sink, ducking slightly to see her entire face and for several minutes scrutinized her face and teeth. Not sure what she was looking for—she didn't think she looked pregnant—she lifted her hair in her fingers and let it fall. Curls bounced around her face. She pulled her hair away from her face and frowned. Why, she wondered, not for the first time, did she love Grissom's curly hair yet did not care for her own.

That thought took her to the future. She dropped her hair and let one lock curl around her fingers. Her baby—Grissom's child—would have curly hair. Maybe she would have a boy and boys didn't seem to worry about hair like girls did. She remembered being envious of classmates with long straight hair and how she spent hours trying to get her hair to do the same thing.

"What are you thinking?" The soft whisper brought her back to the present. Grissom's hand touched her shoulder and caressed around the back of her neck, letting his fingers lace into her hair.

A sudden giggle erupted from her throat. She turned. "We're going to have a curly haired baby, Gil."

He chuckled. "She'll be as cute as her mother." His lips touched the back of her neck as his arms circled her body, his hands moved to her breast and Sara could feel him hardening behind her. "Hmmmmm," he murmured before nuzzling her neck.

"I haven't showered," she said.

"I don't care." He propelled her away from the mirror, slowly kissing the back of her neck until they reached the bed. "There's a lot to be said for beds," he said.

"Not up for the shower?"

"Too small for what I want." He was pushing his pants off, "and the bed is soft." His fingers played along her arm. "and warm—like you." He found the zipper of her pants.

Naked, he knelt on the bed and pulled her pants off as she leaned back against the pillows and put her hands behind her neck. He lifted her knee and kissed it. His fingers found the edge of her panties; his thumb stroked across the fabric between her legs before he removed her underwear. His hands slipped along her thighs, her calves and ankles, as he removed her rose-colored panties. Leaning forward, his tongue touched her belly and he felt a slight quiver as her muscles rippled.

Sara laughed and the sound tugged at Grissom's insides. The urge to touch her, to kiss her until amusement was transformed into desire was irresistible. He began to kiss her abdomen following an invisible line upward until he reached her bra and the valley between her breasts. One hand slipped behind her to the hook and quickly the bra was flung across the room. By the time his mouth placed a circle of kisses on her left breast, she was no longer giggling, but pushing fingers through his hair and lifting her hips against his. His thumb and index finger gently rolled her nipple and the sensation against his fingertips caused him to make a soft, husky groan. His head dropped between her breasts and he cradled his palm around one bringing his lips to kiss her soft skin. A wonderful, delicious tension began to build deep inside.

Sara tugged, wanting him to move upward. Her hands moved across his shoulders and met as her fingers tangled in his hair. He kissed her neck, her chin, and finally met her lips. She responded, parting her mouth to meet his.

A moment later she felt the firm thrust of his erection against her thigh. His fingers threaded their way into her most private feminine folds, touching her in the most intimate way, responding to that wonderful aching sensation of desire.

He whispered her name as his erection probed, found the entrance to her body, and eased into her body. The sensation was one familiar yet brought hot pleasure to her, the aching turning to passion as he began to move, slowly, cautiously within her. He rocked against her, moving faster as both were gripped by an overpowering force of passion.

Sara reached her climax first; her fingers pressed into Grissom's back. Her body tensed for several seconds until she no longer had any notion of what was going on around her. A quiet choked cry came as waves of pleasure rippled through her. Within seconds, he collapsed, sprawling across her as his arm curved possessively around her.

They lay quietly for a time, slowly becoming aware of the warmth between them, a renewal of strength—_joie de vivre_—and the simple joy of each other. Grissom eventually raised himself on his elbow, placed a hand on her belly and looked at her.

"I'm not sure I can bear living without you, Sara."

"Yes, you can. It's only a few more weeks—you need to finish your commitment here." She lifted her head and kissed his chin. "I have another week—thanks to old Mrs. Harcourt dying in France. Then you will have three short weeks until you are home." She pulled him so his head rested against her shoulder.

Grissom's hand remained on her stomach; Sara's hand covered his. She said, "It's kind of unbelievable, isn't it."

"Uh-huh," he chuckled after his agreement. His thumb moved in a circle on her skin. "I know nothing about babies, Sara. I know nothing about having babies—nothing! I've never even seen a birth."

He felt her laugh in the rise and fall of her belly. "I know nothing—but I've got a book. Actually, I have three books!" She giggled. "Do you think we can check a baby out of a baby library and learn what to do?"

Grissom laughed and wrapped his arm around her. "We'll figure it out. Lots of people do—we're not having six or seven at one time, are we?"

Sara grunted. "I hope not. I'm scheduled for an ultrasound after you get home."

"Should you wait that long?"

"I want you there to see it when I do." She knew he smiled. "Take a nap," she said. "I'll shower and go get Hank."

~~Hours later, after Hank welcomed them home, after they had eaten dinner at one of the neighborhood cafés, after they had walked Hank to the river, Grissom and Sara sat at their small table and reviewed everything they had heard about Mrs. Harcourt's death. Grissom's notes were in the center of the table turned so he could read his writing.

Sara said, "It actually becomes very obvious once we know the younger Mrs. H was at the spa. It took us less than an hour from the house to the spa."

"But we'll never be able to charge her with this murder—the French, that is," Grissom fussed. "The death was treated as an accidental fall—from the time she was found." His hand fanned over the photographs. "A hundred photographs—when five hundred should have been taken. All that top of the line equipment available and no one thought an old lady might have been killed." He shook his head. "You always have to question, have doubts—is it time to call Catherine?" He picked up one of the advertising brochures from the spa and tapped its edge on the table.

Sara reached for her phone and dialed. Catherine answered on the first ring and after the usual greetings and questions, she asked, "Is Grissom there too?"

"Yes he is, right here." Sara placed the phone on the table and pressed a button. "You are on speaker, Catherine."

Catherine's delighted voice traveled the nine hours of time change as fast as words tumbled from her mouth. "Gil! I miss you every day! When are you coming home? Please do not tell me you are heading to Outer Mongolia and taking Sara with you! If you do, I promise to go with you—not to Mongolia. I don't think they have air-conditioning there. I'll find another way to make life miserable for you! It's been great having Sara back and I know you think I am not looking for new CSIs, I am—but compared to Nick, Greg, and Sara—no one works like they do!

"Listen to me! This is business. Sara, what did you learn? Did Grissom help you? Did the French cooperate? The casino has given Mrs. Harcourt a penthouse suite so she is coming back here in a few weeks. That way we hope to get her in Nevada without extradition papers and without her thinking she's a suspect. I'll tell you this—she's spending money by the boat load! Nick is following her financial records—she got into the safety deposit boxes so no way to know what was in those. We've put a hold on her passport with TSA, but nothing—nothing to really tie her to killing her husband. And we have found nothing new—it's like a ghost did this." Catherine stopped to breathe and Grissom's glance was enough to cause Sara to stifle a giggle.

Catherine resumed after a thirty second pause, "Just tell me you found something—anything—to tie this woman to a murder."

No one said anything for several seconds—Grissom waiting for Sara, Sara waiting for Catherine.

Sara said, "Catherine, I wish we had something definite—the French have been great, but from the beginning they looked at the death here as a fall. No longer but they are leaving the younger Mrs. Harcourt to us." They heard Catherine groan. "But, here's the good news—both Mrs. Harcourts were at a spa on the same day—the day before the older one was found dead. It gets better. They had a huge argument in the spa. Everyone heard it. The younger wanted money—or access to some account and the older woman was refusing. The spa is less than an hour from the house."

Sara continued with a detailed report of what they had found, heard, seen. "I knew the shoes would be the clue—almost like the two pairs left at the hotel—but no, the old Mrs. Harcourt had a huge room filled with shoes. Everything is a dead end. But Grissom came up with a plan."

"Tell me," Catherine said with an audible sigh. "I need something."

Grissom explained his plan. "Is her cousin still in Florida?" He asked.

"Yes, still looking for the mountain climbing one," Catherine said.

"Haul the one in from Florida—use anything you can—but you will need Mrs. Harcourt in Vegas when he's arrested. I'd go with the murder of the guy with the watch and get extradition based on that. When he's arrested, have someone standing in the door of that penthouse to bring Mrs. Harcourt in. And let her sit while her cousin flies to Vegas."

"We think the other guy—the mountain climber—may be dead. He was supposed to show up in Colorado last week to climb with a group—never showed."

"Yeah, this woman is a black widow and she's killing anyone who has been a witness. I'm thinking the mountain climber killed the watch guy—the Florida cousin killed the mountain climber. If he's of average intelligence, he wants to stay away from his rich girl-cousin."

He continued with his idea, plotting like Danny Ocean, and giving a smile to Sara several times as Catherine murmured "That might work."

"Sara will send all of this to you. Photographs are excellent but not enough of them, no autopsy, body cremated—nothing left in that house as evidence—but I'd say Mrs. Harcourt the younger was not inside longer than five minutes after bashing that pipe wrench into her mother-in-law's head."

Catherine replied, "I'll get everything else and have it waiting. And Grissom—don't keep Sara too long. I want her here when we bring in Mrs. Harcourt and show her the photographs and the pipe wrench." She laughed. "I don't mean cut her week short, just don't try to keep her for a month!" She talked for several minutes about everyone in the lab—gossip and cases and news. "When will you be back? Don't tell me you are staying in Paris longer than the semester!"

"I'll be home before long," he said. "Just keep my wife out of gun fights."

They laughed as long-time friends and asked about Lindsay and Lily before ending the call. Sara gathered up the papers and photographs.

"Do you think this will work?" She asked.

Grissom grumbled, "Who knows—you know she had help in Vegas and the cousins being in Vegas the same time as the husband was killed points in that direction." He pointed to a photograph of the living Mrs. Harcourt. "This woman will not crack. Her cousin is the best candidate, especially if he thinks we are going to send her to France for killing the old lady and he's left for the murders in Vegas."

Sara stood and stretched. "I'm going to bed. I think I missed my nap today."

"I'll take Hank out. Warm my spot in bed." His hand reached out and brought her into a two-armed hug. "You could stay until I go back."

She smiled and kissed him. "Catherine might harm you. We're so backed up. This guy is killing people—Ray calls him 'Dr. Jekyll' but it's more like Mundinus than Dr. Jekyll."

Grissom kissed his wife, grabbed Hank's brightly colored leash and whistled for the dog. "I'll be right back. No more thinking of crime in Vegas—for another week. You get a real vacation of wandering streets, eating good food, reading trashy novels." He chuckled as he and the dog disappeared.

Sara found her book—not a trashy novel—and headed to bed.

_A/N: Okay-time to vote-long story continuing until the end of Sara's pregnancy, or short, ending in one or two more chapters? Reviewers can decide. So let us know in your review..._


	10. Chapter 10

_Long story! Decided we had a lot of story to tell! Enjoy!_

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 10**

When Grissom and Hank returned, they found Sara sleeping with the kitten curled around her feet. The thick book had fallen or was tucked between arm and chest. Grissom pulled it free; he knew it was a book on pregnancy. He had read several chapters—he knew they had reasons to worry, but he refused to follow his fears for now. He flipped pages in the book and saw familiar little marks in margins.

He knew Sara had an almost photographic memory for reading. He had watched as she read a book or newspaper. Her eyes did not travel from line to line, but "saw" like a camera, instantaneously, and, like a camera, she retained every detail. She was successful at hiding her gift; Grissom had seen her glance at a page and almost speak before she realized others were still reading.

Sara had told him of an experience in second grade, when her teacher had discovered she was smart—very smart. The school had given her a series of exams and called her parents for a conference. She had pretended to play with toys across the room as her mother listened to the school's psychologist who gave the tests.

"Her scores are the highest we've ever seen at this school," he said. "When I asked what she liked, Sara said she was good at ambition, distraction, uglification and derision." He chuckled. "A marvelous sense of humor in a child! So few read _Alice in Wonderland_ nowadays to their children."

Her mother had nodded in agreement, saying "I want her to be—normal. Not some freak that burns out when most kids are just getting their start."

The psychologist was kind and had dealt with parents like Mrs. Sidle for years. "No, that rarely happens, Mrs. Sidle. Once a good brain, always a good brain; and for every burned-out genius, there are fifty who live a long time having greatly enriched our culture."

Sara had laughed as she recalled this story—one of the few she told about either parent. She was placed in an advanced math class the next day, stayed in the school for two more months before her parents moved again. By then, she knew to keep her ability a secret—she could keep secrets very well, she learned. She had not laughed at that part of her story.

He pulled covers over her legs, moving the kitten to the chair. Sara was stunningly beautiful in his eyes—her long legs, crossed at the ankles, the curve of her hip, her thin shirt clinging to her breasts—he had to breathe deeply and think of something else to cool the growing heat in his groin. He chuckled; she could be gone for days and sex, having sex, never crossed his mind, not once, not with all the stylish young women in Paris. But when Sara was near—his brain seemed to split into two pieces and the lower head thought of only one thing.

Slipping beside her, she turned and snuggled, her back against his chest. His arm wrapped around her waist and then moved down to her lower abdomen. He placed his hand over where he thought a baby would be growing—not much larger than a golf ball, he thought.

He kissed the back of her neck, tucked his knees against her legs, and closed his eyes. He lay next to Sara, in the warm night air, feeling better than he had in years. They had a week—Sara had a week before returning to Vegas. He would make sure she rested, enjoyed her days, and slept at nights.

He dreamt of rare butterflies, and a beautiful woman with brown velvet eyes who kept peeking at him from behind flowers in a lush, tropical forest. In his dream, he heard the sounds of high-pitched giggles—not Sara because she was leading him silently—and stepping into a meadow, there were children playing; more than one child, running and bouncing around, reaching for blue, yellow, and orange butterflies, so he could never count them and all of them sounded like Sara.

When he woke in the morning, he remembered the dream. Looking at Sara, who was still asleep, he actually felt that everything would be okay. He grinned as he remembered his dream with numerous children—hopefully, only one was their child. Quietly, he left with Hank and returned with croissants and juice and by the time he showered, Sara was awake, chewing on the pastry while lying flat in bed.

"You okay?" He asked, leaning over the bed to kiss her.

"I'm fine—really, just planning my day before I lift my head." She smiled. "I think I'll do something frivolous today—walk along the Seine, or just sit and watch people." Which is what she did, with Hank, walking for hours until they both needed to rest and sat in the sun watching children play in a park.

On another day, she strolled to the Louvre, went inside and looked at the statues in her favorite area of the museum, mesmerized by the beautiful figures of gods and kings and queens. On two mornings she postponed her wanderings of Paris due to the return of nausea. She ate dry crackers until the sickness subsided.

"It's the smell of food," she told Grissom, "and especially coffee."

That afternoon, he purchased a small fan and when delivery trucks woke him before dawn, he closed windows and turned on the fan. He asked the women at work for remedies, treatments or antidotes and as many answers as there were women; all agreed morning sickness was a sign of a healthy baby.

At night, after dinner, Sara and Grissom walked—one night all the way to the Place de la Concorde, and stood there, watching the fountains with the Eiffel Tower lit up in the distance. An old bum slept on a bench, a young couple strolled by kissing, and no one paid any attention to them as Grissom's lips met hers.

"How about Montmartre?" He asked. And as a rare treat, they walked to the nearest taxi stand, and Grissom gave directions, adding they were looking for a bistro. The driver delivered—a small place open late with tables on the sidewalk. Neither drank coffee; Grissom ordered wine and Sara asked for water or juice—she got both—and they stayed and talked as they often did of everything and nothing.

By the time midnight arrived, Sara had swallowed a gallon of juice or water and Grissom had drank as much wine and was "not drunk" he insisted, but just a little tipsy from wine. Sara laughed so hard she nearly wet her pants as he attempted to pay their bill, giving their waiter an enormous tip even as the man insisted "non, non, monsieur!" and called a taxi.

Grissom seldom drank enough alcohol to be intoxicated, and when he did, he became sweetly dependent, chatty, more emotional and openly affectionate. When Sara returned from the bistro's restroom, she knew by the smiles on the faces of the staff, Grissom had announced she was pregnant to complete strangers. And she laughed as he stood there looking extremely satisfied, slightly disheveled, and beaming with pride.

"I love you, Sara," he said as she appeared. "The mother of my children," he told the four or five people remaining in the small bistro. "I think we'll have lots of children—and lots of dogs, too." He hugged Sara, remembered he was in Paris, and switched to French: "Nous sommes d'avoir un bẻbẻ, beaucoup de bẻbẻs! Pas tous ἀ la fois!" He leaned his head against Sara. "Nous allons faire de beaux bẻbẻs!" (We are having a baby, many babies! Not all at once!... We will make beautiful babies!)

By the time the taxi arrived, each man had congratulated Sara and Grissom, who continued to keep arms around her, nuzzling her neck and sliding a thumb along the line where her breasts met her chest in a very uncharacteristic show of public affection. Sara guided him to the taxi and gave the address of their apartment. By the time they reached the street below Montmartre, Grissom was snoring and she had to wake him up when the driver stopped at their door.

"We're going to have lots of kids, Sara," he warbled as they walked up the stairs. "Lots of beautiful kids chasing butterflies!"

"Shhhh," she giggled. "We don't want to wake the neighbors!"

He giggled like a teenage girl. Sara giggled at the sound—very few people had ever heard the sound Grissom made when he giggled, she thought. He stopped on the landing and refused to go further until she kissed him as he fondled her butt. She laughed, quietly, as she led him upward, one step and one kiss at a time. She thought of the first time she had heard Grissom's laugh and decided he needed to laugh more.

By the time she removed his shoes, he was asleep, rolling onto his back and spreading arms and legs across the bed. She was able to pull his pants off and unbutton his shirt, but then she gave up and got ready for bed. Even asleep, or passed out with excessive wine, Grissom tried to be amorous, kissing her shoulder and reaching around her body. With his next move and mumbled words, Sara thought he might not be as drunk or asleep as he pretended.

His hand rested on her belly, lightly making a circle with his palm. "Babies—right here, Sara. Our babies." And immediately he began to snore.

Sun was streaming through the window when they woke up; Sara woke first and was looking at him when he stirred.

"Good morning," she whispered cheerily, and he groaned as he rolled to his side. "A little too much wine last night?" Her hands reached his shoulders and gently massaged his neck. His skin was incredibly smooth—like a baby's, she thought. "Did you sleep well?"

He rolled over and looked at her, took her hands in his and kissed her. "I don't remember getting home last night—how much wine did I drink?"

"Lots," Sara said. He was kissing her hands again, moving his hands around her waist.

"Mmmmm," he responded as his arms went around her and his lips moved from her hands to her chest as he pushed her shirt above her breasts. She moaned softly at his touch and reached out to pull him to her.

They kissed and touched until their bodies were entwined, tangled in sheets, and clothing became unnecessary. Sara felt the hardness of his body, the part that made him a man, that sought desire and passion from her. Grissom caught his breath at the nearness of their bodies, the combined harmony of their bodies together, hardness and softness, angles and curves. He settled against her and tried to be responsible as he kissed her, wanting to devour her until she was part of him. But his thoughts of responsibility, of wanting Sara to know how he could love her were forgotten when her lips and hands were as hungry as his; her spontaneous response to him was one of zealous lust and he could not stop when her warm dampness welcomed his hard erection.

It was nearly noon when they separated enough to breathe normally again, and they lay in each other's arms, spent and sated.

"I love you, Gil."

"That's a good thing," he said, pulling her so close to him that it seemed they were one person, "because I've never loved anyone as much in my life." He looked so pleased with what they had done.

Following a long comfortable silence, he said, "You could stay here."

Sara rose up on an elbow; her fingertips played across his chest and touched his chin. "We've had this conversation before—you know the lab needs another person." She kissed his chin. "And I'd kind of like to be there to see the Harcourt murder resolution—if it happens." She kissed his lips. "And then you will be home! It's not that long—just three weeks."

"Be safe, honey. No more rushing into danger—no more pulling your gun! When will you tell Catherine? She needs to know." His thumb caressed her eyebrow as his hands laced into her hair.

"We should talk about this, Gil. I don't want to tell anyone at work until we know—know things are okay. I want to have tests done—an ultrasound is already schedule but we have to wait a few more weeks for some of the other tests. I'll be careful—promise."

"Okay," he whispered. From the sound of his voice, Sara knew he was far more concerned for her safety and for this pregnancy than he had shown with his glowing excitement.

_A/N: more sweet smut, and pregnancy secrets! Enjoy!_


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Long chapter-enjoy!_

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 11**

While Grissom worked, Sara spent most of a day walking through Pere Lachaise Cemetery—Grissom thought it odd that a cemetery was a tourist attraction, but agreed this one was unlike any he had ever seen. It was one of Sara's favorite places in Paris; a peaceful and beautiful oasis in the middle of a busy, noisy city. She avoided the famous American singer and meandered among the large crypts with names no one knew, shaded by one hundred year old oaks, maples, ash, acacias, and hazelnut trees covered with new spring-green leaves. The flowers were some of the most beautiful in Paris—beds of red, purple, and yellow bloomed and swayed in a gentle wind against backdrops of granite, marble, sandstone, and decorative brickwork of tombs and crypts.

She had entered by a back gate so she walked downhill, taking time along the way to see the bullet holes in the Wall of Federates where Communards were executed. She stood for a few minutes before the heart-wrenching memorials to the dead of prison camps, airplane crashes, soldiers and victims of war and disasters. She walked passed the art-deco lipstick covered tomb of Oscar Wilde, the stone carved balloon basket with two men who died before anyone knew about diminishing oxygen levels, and the reclining sculpture of a lover with a strategic bulge in his trousers, worn smooth by many touches of other lovers. There were simple structures of wood next to the ostentatious monuments of the very rich. She recognized most of the famous: Moliere, Balzac, Piaf, Rossini, Isadora, and Chopin. At Chopin's tomb, one she always found, she was amazed by the countless flowers placed by fans from all over the world for a man dead over 150 years.

Sara had a second agenda on her stroll—one she would not mention to Grissom yet. They had not talked about a baby name and she was making a mental list as she strolled. She did not want a daughter named Sara—too confusing and every child needed its own identity. Perhaps Grissom's mother's name, or even her mother's name, could be a middle name, but she thought a French name would be nice. A connection to where this baby got its start, she thought with a smile. She had already crossed several names from her list; Grissom was adamant about his name, saying "the only time I've ever liked my name is when you say it", so she would have no little Gilbert. However, she thought, the French pronunciation was beautiful but knew she would never get her husband to agree to that.

She noted names she would not bestow on a child, and many she would: Marie, Suzanne, Sophie, Claire, Anna, Camille, Giulia, Juliette, and for a male child there were the names of Claude, Judah, Leon, Henri, Gerard, Victor, Pierre, and Guillaume. She sat on one of the many benches and wrote names inside the back cover of a small journal. Finishing her list—she liked them all—she closed her book and looked at the tall ornate crypt in front of her. A sculpture of a noble head sat in an alcove above a carved mourning angel—a stunning work of art among hundreds of other elegant forms. Her mind translated: Marshall Suchet, military or politician, she thought, but knew no more about him. Then, her eyes found his given name and she smiled. Reopening her book, she wrote the name at the top of her list of names.

Near the end of the week, a researcher working with Grissom presented him with two tickets to the Opera Bastille, the modern opera house of Paris, for a performance of _Tosca._

Sara slept most of the afternoon, an unexpected drowsiness coming over her as she was packing a small box of possessions and mementos they had collected in their time in Paris. She had taken a few things back with her on previous trips, but the books, several sweaters, tiny hand-made ornaments for Christmas, a carved bug, a small painting were carefully packed into the box.

By the time Grissom arrived, she was trying to decide what to wear—two options: total black, sweater and pants, or a blue dress she had worn on several other occasions.

"Wear the blue," he said as he reached for his own black clothes. "It looks good on you and I love that color."

She stepped into the dress, adjusted the straps on her shoulders and turned for Grissom to zip it. Instead of doing what she expected, his warm fingers touched her skin as his hands slipped under the fabric and moved to her chest causing her to make a soft shriek before giggling.

"Zip the dress, Romano!" She commanded as his lips touched the back of her neck. His hands cupped her breasts and he pulled her body against his.

"Maybe we should skip the opera. Stay here—play with what comes up?" He teased.

"Nope, you accepted the gift. We're going."

His hands remained where they were; his fingertips played with her nipples. "I think your boobs are getting bigger."

"Zip me, stud muffin!" She wiggled and giggled again as he nuzzled her neck.

"I don't think I can zip myself up," he said as he pressed into her backside against the cleft of her butt and pumped against her several times.

Sara laughed. "Zip me up, lover boy, and I'll take care of you—your pants now. And I'll take care of the rest of you later!"

Slowly he withdrew his hands, but not before he let his fingers slip to her panties where he ran thumbs inside the narrow waistband and to her back where he made pseudo-pathetic sounds of pain and agony as he zipped her up.

"You know you have my pity," Sara purred as she pulled his pants together, tugged the hook in place, tucked his enlarging member snuggly inside, and gave it a kind pat with the palm of her hand. "Down, boy. Your turn comes later." She snickered as she kissed the smirk on his face.

The modern opera hall was a crush of people dressed in everything from simple dresses to dazzling designer gowns and flashing jewels made more dramatic by the blaze of chandeliers. Grissom kept an arm around Sara as they made their way across the lobby. Inside the theater, the aisles were choked as the audience of nearly three thousand searched and found seats.

"The place is always sold out," Grissom explained. "I've tried to get tickets for us for weeks and when Fleming offered the tickets—this might be the last chance we get to see opera in Paris for some time."

They settled into seats; Sara took a moment to touch Grissom's face, pretending to smooth his hair.

"You are handsome in your black, husband," she whispered.

Grissom's blue eyes gleamed with wry humor. "You look exceptionally beautiful in blue, dear. And—there's a glow to your face." He took her hand in his, kissed her palm, and tucked her arm within the fold of his. "I think you might be in the family way, Mrs. Grissom."

Sara leaned against him and kissed his cheek, leaving a slightly pink lipstick mark that she decided added to his handsome face and left it there.

The opera was mesmerizing and opulent and in Italian, which neither understood, but as with most operas, the story was in the music, beautiful and sensitive to the passion on stage as two lovers were pulled apart by the malevolent desires of a corrupt man. The story, well known, was immediately recognized as terrifying and tragic; no happy ending for anyone.

The talented cast was spectacular, no voice wavered as lovers plotted and characters were easily identified as good or evil by their costumes. The chief of police and his associate were dressed as the consummate wicked characters—black military uniforms and shiny knee high boots, and one actor had a scar across his bald head to add to his malicious look.

Following an intensely violent scene, Tosca sang with such passion and bravado, with insecurity and delicacy, the audience experienced with her the heartbreak and atrocious tragedy to come. Sara's hand gripped Grissom's as the grim and ominous stage appeared in Act III. When the male lover, condemned to death, sang of his love and passion for Tosca, his voice sounded as if he were crying.

Sara was one of two thousand who began to cry. Grissom pulled a snowy handkerchief from his pocket and placed it in her hand. Most of the audience cried for the entire third act. When the curtain closed, the ovation was tremendous as applause filled the theater along with many good-natured shouts of bravo from all tiers of the theater. Sara wiped her face and smiled.

"Well done—wasn't it great?" She smiled as she folded the handkerchief.

Grissom chuckled. "Beautiful and well staged—most of the audience in tears—I'd say very successful."

Slowly, they made their way to the metro station, changed subways, and got on the last car with a much smaller crowd of young people returning from their own night's entertainment.

A young woman seated across from Sara noticed the opera program in her hand. "Did you go to the opera?" She asked, speaking in English with a drawl that reminded Sara of Nick.

"Yes, we did. Very enjoyable." Sara answered.

The girl burped and giggled. "Sorry—can you speak Italian—aren't operas in Italian?"

"The story is usually easy to understand just by the music," Sara explained. "You should try it sometime."

Suddenly, Sara recognized a change in the appearance of the girl—one she was recently familiar with, "Oh! Grissom! She's going to be sick!"

Her friends moved away; Grissom grabbed an abandoned newspaper, quickly folded it and tried to hand it to the young woman just as she heaved. The smell of vomit filled the area—a stench of stale beer and undetermined food permeated the car. The kids shouted and gagged along with their friend, moving further away. The vomiting girl grabbed Grissom's sleeve and threw up again. Sara clinched her teeth, hoping her stomach and the others would be strong.

"Sara!" Grissom shouted over the noise. "Find something else—more newspaper." Sara scrambled to fold more newspaper into a paper cone.

In the chaos and noise, no one had noticed the older woman sitting at the end of the car. She walked up to the vomiting girl, pushing Grissom aside, and placed a large plastic shopping bag in front of the girl.

"_Utiliser cette," _(use this) she said and shoved the vomit-loaded newspaper into the bottom of the bag. She muttered several other sentences before returning to her seat. Sara understood one: "_Les Amẻricains doivent apprendre a boire_" (Americans need to learn how to drink.)

Grissom removed his jacket as they left the metro station and rolled it up. "Cleaners after this," he grumbled.

Sara laughed at his fastidious attention to the slightly soiled coat—coming from a man who, in the past, could work for thirty-six hours in clothes smelling of decomp. Her arm circled his waist and his went around her shoulders.

"A good night, except for the subway," he said, in a voice as seductive as moonlight on dark water.

"Yes," she leaned against him and let her head touch his and in that way, they walked the short distance to the apartment. Tonight, they were as quiet as mice as they climbed the stairs.

"I'll take Hank out while you shower," Grissom offered. Sara nodded, knowing he would walk the dog to the nearest tree, where Hank would relieve himself, and the two would return in less than six minutes.

"Unzip, please." With her request, his mouth came down on her neck, warm and intoxicating. She suddenly shivered and desire unfurled within her. "I'll get ready," she whispered.

Grissom and Hank returned in less than five minutes. Sara had showered quickly—Grissom was right, the small cubicle with its sloping ceiling was too small for a shared shower. She pulled a thin shirt over her head, decided against it, and slipped between the sheets just as man and dog opened the door. When he saw her, he smiled, crossing the space in a few steps.

"What am I going to do without you?" He asked in that soothing seductive, sexually enticing voice.

"Take a shower," Sara whispered, "quickly," and giggled as his pants were sliding past his knees before he stepped away from the bed.

Grissom uttered a heavy, urgent groan as he got into bed; his hair and skin still wet from his fast shower. His fingers brushed one dark nipple. "Beautiful," he breathed.

Sara fitted her hands around his neck, feeling the heat and strength of his body. The sense of urgency flowered inside her.

Maintaining his hold on her, he reached out and turned off the light beside the bed. Only the glow of street lights filtered into the apartment. Grissom pushed back the covering sheet and arranged himself so he could touch her with both hands.

"I want to see all of you," he said softly. His hands caressed her arms, her hips, moved to her butt before progressing to her legs and back to her thighs. Sara watched as he kissed the bare skin just above the dark triangle between her legs. A shiver moved up her spine in a wave of exquisite intimacy. By the time Grissom got back to Sara's lips, she could no longer concentrate on anything else but his touch. His kisses were slow and intense as she responded.

One place on her body, just below her breasts, caused Sara to react with soft laughter when Grissom's beard tickled her and her soft laughter flowed around them as he stroked her, slowly, memorizing the feel of her body. His fingers found the core of the aching sensation between her legs and when he gently probed, inserting a single finger inside her, she gasped, quietly. He began to work his fingers, two inside her making a sweeping motion while his thumb circled the throbbing bud at her entrance.

Sara's convulsing muscles caused her to twist against him, calling his name, wanting more. He moved, swiftly, settling on top of her, guiding, pushing his erection into her. She held him as he increased the tempo of his thrusts, moving with him as breathing became harsher. Her back arched as he sank into her, and simultaneously, the two lovers climaxed within seconds of each other. In the quiet darkness, they lay together for a long time, without speaking, but listening as their breathing returned to normal.

Years before, Sara had been the first to know there was a connection between them. After loving each other—the actual act of making love—in some way she could not explain, she was bound to him. Not by passion because she knew it to be a strong but transient force, but by something in their nature—their genes—bound them together.

Grissom came back to his senses, aware of a nearly boneless sensation in his body. Sara was still more under him than beside him, her body warm and soft, and very damp in a certain place. He lifted his head enough to see her, eyes closed, her mouth soft with a faint beginning of a smile playing at its corners. Gently, and reluctantly, he pulled free of her tight, swollen center, and moved beside her.

When she stirred and her eyes opened, he was surprised to see the glint of tears.

"Honey, what's wrong?" His knuckle wiped away the moisture at the corner of her eye.

She smiled, broadly. "No, just somewhat intense, that's all."

He pulled her close, and they lay in each other's arms, grateful for every minute, knowing they would separate in a few days for a very long three weeks.

At the same time, both started to speak. "You go first," Sara said.

"What am I going to do without you?" Grissom said as he held her close.

"Don't think about it," she said, and then she kissed him. "It's only three weeks—you have a lot to do. I'll be busy as well and then you will be home—and Hank and Heather and we'll make plans." She nestled even closer to him. "Paris is beautiful in the spring time, isn't it?"

For a long time, Grissom did not answer yet Sara knew he was not asleep. Finally, he said, "I'd like to come back here and rent a place again."

"I'd like to think we'll return one day, maybe we will," she chuckled. "And bring a stroller with us."

The deep rumble in his chest became a laugh. "We'll bring little Sara with us so she can play in the playgrounds."

Sara raised her hand and held up one finger. "We need to talk about names—now's a good time, I think." She reached above her head to a shelf that held several small items including her little book. "I've started a list of names—see what you think."

Grissom switched on the lamp, jammed a pillow behind his head, and brought her into the curve of his arm. A smile played along his lips; his eyes twinkled in the soft light. "Okay, let's see what you've got." His voice reflected the deep satisfaction he felt by her interest in names; he had worried she was not excited about the pregnancy—she had been so cautious.

She showed him her list, explaining her reason for selecting French names; his grin grew. She was happy and for the first time, she was talking about their baby—naming a baby, his baby, he thought.

"I like every one of those names—do we get to use all of them?"

Her elbow poked his rib. "Gilbert Grissom," she teased. "I do not think I'll be octo-mom, or even mother to five or six or seven children. You have to pick one name suitable for a boy and a girl." She laughed. "We could go with Pierre Claude Gilbert Sidle Grissom."

He grunted. "Not Gilbert—if I can't name her Sara, you can't use Gilbert—even its French pronunciation. I'll let you pick out a name—you're doing all the work; I'm having all the fun." He hugged her, kissed her forehead, and placed the little book beside the bed and turned off the light.

"I love you, Sara," he whispered and she responded with the same. He stayed awake until he knew she was asleep. Very carefully, he tucked the covers around her and kissed her again, very gently.

Suddenly, a week had passed in a blur and Sara was packing her backpack and filling a suitcase with things that would not stay in Paris.

"Don't pack so much," Grissom scolded gently. "It's too heavy."

"I'll check it."

"Customs—you don't need to carry heavy stuff," he lifted a stack of books. "I'll pack these to be shipped."

Sara stood, hands on hips, and watched as he placed the books in a growing stack on the floor. "Gil, you will have Heather and Hank and all your things. I can handle a few books."

He reached for her backpack, hefted it several times with one hand as if it were a dumbbell. Items shifted, several things falling to the floor. "This thing weighs forty-five pounds! What have you got in here? Marble angels from the cemetery?"

She giggled and sat on the floor to repack the bag. "More books. The baby things…"

Grissom slid to the floor beside her. "A baby, Sara." His arm went around her shoulders as he picked up a book. "You and I are having a son or daughter—isn't it a miracle?"

She smiled, leaned over and kissed him. "My life is a miracle, Gil."

_A/N: Thanks for reading this longer than usual chapter-if you like it, leave a review, makes us work faster! _


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Back to Vegas and the murder..._

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 12**

_Grissom had gone_ to the airport with Sara and waited until he knew her plane had taken off, sitting on a bench, thinking of her—of them, and watching the security line where he had last seen her. He knew she was in an exit row seat; she was feeling good, no nausea, but he also knew that could change rapidly. He was far more concerned with her safety than he let her know. He worried about everything, about her pulling her gun, about the dangers at work, and about her health—he had spent several hours reading about pregnancy problems and it had nearly scared him to death. His only problem was the ache in his heart now that Sara was gone.

Riding the train back into Paris, he watched as the huge airplanes landed and departed. Sara had made tremendous sacrifices to go back to Vegas and to travel as she had done for all the months he had been in Paris added to her stress. But she had not complained—no once—and she had gotten pregnant. This thought made him smile and when he opened the door to the apartment, the first thing he saw was the small, decorative card that had been with the baby things they had purchased. He flipped the card several times. Sara's excitement about names had been a tremendous relief; in the store, any time he had brought up her pregnancy she had seemed subdued, showing far less excitement and interest than he did. He knew she was worried—she worried enough for both of them—but going over her list of names, he had seen and heard excitement. He chuckled; she could name their child Bevis and he'd be pleased.

He kept the card—maybe he would return to the shop before he left Paris. He stood at the window and watched the sidewalk, thinking about Sara.

_Greg Sanders_ rubbed both eyes and rested his head in his hands. He had gone through the boxes of evidence, little there was, and read the notes until he thought he was going blind. Catherine and Nick had gone with Jim Brass; Langston was in the morgue and Greg was stuck with this "cold" case. Lately, he had been doing more lab work than field work; still caught between field and lab. Currently, the only positive aspect of his work was the return of Sara Sidle Grissom, and, it caused him to smile, she had worked on a related murder in France. He checked the clock—three more hours and he would be waiting at the curb.

He went back to reading, writing a few notes and comparing Nick's copious notes with his own. They had two dead men connected by a pawned watch. A missing mountain climber might hold the key to unlocking the entire mystery and solving at least two, perhaps three murders, but his association was with a man in Florida who had been sitting quietly, and playing a lot of golf for nearly a month. The man in Florida was the cousin of one of the dead men's wife—it made Greg's head swim just trying to put all this together. Nick was convinced it all went back to money and the murder of an old woman in Paris was the beginning.

Greg read Nick's notes and the faxed copies sent by Sara. He chuckled as he attempted to read the chicken-scratch writing; at least she would be back tomorrow—actually tonight—and she could read her own writing. Nick had already collected the items they would need later and papers had been in place for days for the arrest of the man in Florida.

He shook his head as he realized the whole plan could crumble; they needed the man in Florida to "roll" on his cousin. And that cousin was one nasty female. He flipped to the file they had gathered on Mrs. Marcy Harcourt, the grieving widow of Howard Harcourt, lately of Coral Gables, Florida, and most recently, the past two weeks, she had been living in Chicago while redecorating a condominium along Lakeshore Drive. And she was spending money. But her history told of her cruelty. Most of her employees were her relatives, working for slave wages after she secured work cards for them to enter the country. She "fired" them on a regular basis.

Her three children, fathered by another husband, no longer spoke to her. She had attempted to attend the wedding of a daughter, threatened with arrest, she left vowing to "get even with the little bitch."

But the shocking find was a report of domestic violence, uncovered when Nick was tracking the many residences of the couple. The year before, Mr. Harcourt had been found wandering around a gated community in North Carolina in bloody, tattered underwear with plastic zip ties around his wrists. He claimed his wife had beaten him and left him for dead but he had managed to escape the house. The police found Mrs. Harcourt at the house where she insisted they were both involved in sadomasochistic practices—and she had photographs to prove it. Within twenty-four hours, Mr. Harcourt retracted his story; no charges filed.

The local detective told Nick he suspected the story was not true—a gut feeling he had called it—and kept the original photos and report. Greg looked at the photographs and had his own gut feeling. Grissom was right—Marcy Harcourt would never admit to anything.

Greg propped his feet on an open drawer, leaned back in the chair and was immediately asleep.

_The locker door clanged_ loudly as Nick Stokes jerked it open where it banged several times before he stopped it with his aching hand. He ached all over, he thought. What he needed was three days of uninterrupted sleep. He smirked as he thought of the long hours Gil Grissom had worked, appearing to run on ten minutes of sleep every three or four days. And he still needed to review the Harcourt case and check with Greg to see if there was anything they had missed and check with Catherine to be sure the extradition papers were ready. He sank onto one of the benches in the locker room, head in his hands and hoped he could get ten minutes of quiet.

Two minutes later, his phone went off; Doc Robbins was calling him to the morgue. After the morgue, Brass and Catherine pulled him into her office where they managed to close two cases in a relative brief time, but two hours passed before he entered the shared office and found Greg—asleep in his chair.

"Hey, buddy," Nick tipped Greg's chair enough to wake the younger man. "Why don't you go home, get some sleep?"

Greg jerked awake, coughing as he straightened up, passing a hand over his face. "Just—just dosed for a minute." He began to stack the files together when he suddenly checked the clock. "Oh, geez, Nick, I got to go to the airport—check Sara's flight, make sure it's on time." Quickly, he found the correct website and punched in numbers and seconds later was on his feet.

He asked, "Everything okay—I could come back."

"No, go, tell Sara 'welcome back' and we'll see her tonight, not a minute before her shift starts!"

After he left, Nick took the chair vacated by Greg. Between the Harcourt case, three murders in three nights, and Langston's concentration on the killer he named "Jekyll", there was little time left to sleep.

He opened the top file on the stack and shook his head. There was nothing here—nothing new—and he let out a loud sigh as he turned several pages. He flipped more pages, closed one file and opened another—the one on the mountain climber. As he reread the information on the guy, he realized the man was a rock climber—climbing sheer faces of mountains. He turned to the computer and searched for equipment used by rock climbers. Within minutes he found what he wanted—flexible rubber shoes; a second search found four places in Vegas that sold the shoes.

Finding photographs he sought, he called Catherine and headed out. He would be standing at the door of the first one when it opened for business.

_Catherine Willows was still bubbling_ over with excitement as she and Lou Vartann sat down together in the casino Catherine's father had owned. She was very much at home in the dining room and was given a premier table at the massive windows. One thing about Vegas, she thought, any time of day one could order any item on the menu. While she had worked with the man across the table from her for years, they had only recently become a "couple" and were still in the early days of a developing romance.

Work had been their common interest and it continued to dominate their conversations when together. Today was no different as they talked about various cases, crimes and criminals in Vegas.

Abruptly, Vartann said, "I like your dress—I mean—I didn't expect you to change." He made a nervous laugh. "I could have picked you up at home instead of work."

Catherine looked at Vartann; a good-looking man but he did not seem to worry about that. His appearance had always been carefully casual—put together—she thought but never perfection. When he looked at her, he was looking at her—not how her looks reflected his. She smiled and touched his arm. What had warmed and swirled for several weeks seemed to surge into her extremities and flushed her face. From the moment she touched him, everything she said and did, no matter how neutral, became seductive, purposeful.

It seemed to Catherine that everything in the room became part of a sensuous, seductive wave that ascended to the ceiling, hit the windows, popped and washed over them in giddy splashes. Even work played a role, became lighter, teasing, inviting in tone and tenor. They drank cognac and talked of going home.

"Go home with me," Vartann invited in a voice full of warmth, anticipation, with eyes focusing on her as to exclude the rest of the world.

Their urgency got them out of the restaurant and to his house without much talking. He had kissed her as they waited for his vehicle and both had literally run to the car, laughing as the valet attendant halted Catherine at the door for a signature. They never got as far as lying down, or even to the bedroom. Catherine received him standing up, braced against the cold metal of a table. Her knees went wobbly and she moaned as she came very quickly, losing contact with the world for a moment. She felt him come; his hands tightened on her butt in a hard squeeze that made her feel his erection explode.

When it was over, they were a bit surprised and stood there for minutes holding each other up, or Vartann held her up as Catherine felt her feet swinging against his calves. In the next second, they broke apart; he lifted her up so she could sit on the table top.

"I'm not usually like this," she heard him say.

"Oh," Catherine said with an easy laugh, "me either. I mean—the last time I made love standing up—well, let's just say it was a while ago."

His head leaned against hers and he smiled. He said, "Oh, baby," in a voice that was as gentle as a spring breeze and at the same time, extremely erotic.

_Jim Brass sat in his office_, desk spread with papers, deep in thought as he read files of the Harcourt case. He—no, not just him, but everyone—wanted this case closed quickly. His gut knew the wife had killed the guy—maybe she didn't tie him up and cut his eyes out, but he knew without doubt the wife had paid her cousin and his two friends to do this. She was the planner, the one who had gotten away with killing an old lady in France, and the one who arranged this killing in Las Vegas. All for money; his finger went down the long list of enormous sums of money spent in a short while.

He raked fingers across his short cropped hair. He had just spent hours on an old case with a surprising and unexpected resolution, and more hours with Langston talking about this Jekyll case. Langston was pushing everyone to bring Nate Haskell from Ely into Vegas because Langston was convinced there was a connection between Haskell and the Jekyll murders. Brass wasn't so certain.

Brass looked at the newest piece of paper. Nick had spent hours on the Harcourt murder and if everything fell into place, if Marcy Harcourt came to Vegas, if her cousin provided some small piece of connecting evidence, they might be able to close that case—might wasn't a word he liked to use. The most recent news was the confirmation of the purchase of two pairs of rocking climbing shoes by the missing mountain climber. Brass picked up the photo of the shoes—he never knew rock climbing had such specialized shoes but realized the shoes were made to leave no marks on climbing surfaces.

He closed the folder, opened it again, and looked through all the photographs. There were the recent ones of the crime scene, ones sent from Paris by Sara of the old lady, photographs of the three men, and numerous photographs of public events and parties the Harcourts had attended over the years. One photo showed an opening of some hotel—he easily recognized the Harcourts in the center; he pulled a light closer to the picture and studied the other men lined up on either side of the ribbon cutting ceremony. Everyone had looked at this photograph, but this time the young face of one man, the cleft chin, the beaky nose made the proper connection in his brain, and instantly, he recognized the face.

It was the face of the watch man as they had called the dead man who had pawned the watch. No one had recognized him because the photograph was twenty years old and the man with black hair and young face was not exactly the same clean-shaven, billiard-ball bald guy in the morgue. But when Brass put his finger over the hair in the photo, there was no mistaking the nose, the chin, and the eyes. Brass chuckled; it wasn't often he found something all those smart CSIs missed.

_A/N: Thanks for reading, for reviewing, for messages! _


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: If you've read this much-review, please! We love to hear from you..._

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 13**

When the alarm when off, Sara slapped the snooze-bar with a left-handed jab and pushed herself back into the warm, dreamy cocoon between sleep and wakefulness. She wanted another hour to stay in her comfortable bed, but when the alarm beeped a second time, she rolled over and out of bed. The lulling sound of afternoon rain tempted her to return to her warm spot; she had been so exhausted when she got home she had stripped off her traveling clothes and left everything in a heap before collapsing into bed.

She went into the bathroom and splashed water on her face. In the kitchen she found evidence of Greg's quick visit when he insisted on hauling in her suitcase and backpack. He had also brought in food—bagels, juice, a small jar of peanut butter—that she suspected came from his own groceries. Sara put a bagel in the toaster and looked out the window. Vegas was so different from Paris—even in the rain—in its artificial abundance of all gaudy things. She flicked on the television and heard of wildfires on the west coast, and politics in Washington, D.C., and peacemaking or war mongering in the Middle East. She turned it off, ate her bagel, and showered. Dressing for rain, she stuffed an extra pair of jeans and a shirt into her bag. From her backpack, she pulled out small treats for everyone—Greg got his macaroons earlier. The chocolates, _confiture de lait_ (caramel), vacuum packed cheeses, several kinds of tangy mustard, and two thin cookbooks she stuffed in her work bag. She would place the gifts in lockers or on a desk and watch her friends' eyes light up when they knew she had not forgotten about them. In return, they had learned to limit questions about her absence and about her husband.

The time difference meant Grissom was asleep so she sent a text message; she would hear from him when he woke up. As she finished the last word and pressed 'send', the thought of three weeks before they would be together opened as a cavern in her mind. It forced everything else into nothingness. She shut her eyes and fought the urge to call Grissom, wake him up so she could hear his voice. She had managed for months, day-to-day getting up, going to work, completing her shift, and coming home, no longer dwelling on the horrors of her work. And she was going to continue in the same mode, no longer getting personally involved in cases. She laughed quietly as she thought of the dozens of times Grissom had told her to "let it go" and she had finally learned—it took leaving Grissom twice before she sought the help she needed. And now she had another reason to keep her going, to remain calm and sane in this often senseless world. She sat on the bed for several minutes and reflected on the joy of the past three weeks and tried to convince herself that three weeks would pass very quickly.

A few minutes later, she was driving to work, carefully watching traffic because confused tourists would miss a turn or locals had forgotten how to drive in a downpour of rain. In the locker room, she arrived in time to hear a day shift lab tech provide a detailed recitation of gynecological problems to three other women. It managed to keep the men away, and she escaped when Greg waved from the doorway.

He was smiling and doing a nervous dance with his hands and feet while waiting for her. "I ate all my cookies!" He said.

She poked him with an elbow. "Greg! A dozen macaroons!" She dropped her voice. "I've got _confiture de lait_ for you too." She knew he loved the caramel sauce and would eat it with a spoon.

Nick, Greg, and Catherine spent an hour with the Harcourt files as Sara related what she and Grissom had seen and heard. She said, "They assumed it was a fall—never looked at anything else. And Howie and Marcy showed up just in time and, from what the local police said, took over. Old Mrs. Harcourt wasn't cold when she was cremated!"

"Her money went to her son—millions, along with some expensive property." Nick tapped a photograph of Marcy Harcourt placed on top of three inches of financial records. "It's all about money."

Brass joined them, bringing a box of cupcakes, each one the size of his hand. As he passed around the box, he said "Hello, CSI guys! And Sara—how is the husband?"

She nodded with a smile, "Good." The others made comments about Sara's return, the cupcakes, the weather, and, finally, someone asked or indicated the file in Jim's hand.

As if on cue, he gave a slight grin and placed a photograph on the table, pointing a finger at one face. A second photo was a morgue shot of a dead man—recognized by everyone as the man who had pawned Howard Harcourt's diamond decorated watch. Brass pulled a third photograph from a file, a blown-up section of the first one. His grin became a chuckle. "Look what I found," his voice reflected his laugh. "Our watch guy—and his name is Cal Walker. Worked for Harcourt's company for years—lately he worked for Mrs. Marcy Harcourt until his recent trip to Las Vegas. And he never returned to the horse farm in Ocala, Florida."

They leaned and stretched and turned to see his three photographs.

Nick was the first to give a satisfied chuckle. Greg let out a sigh; Sara smiled and Catherine said "Well, I'll be damn—she said she didn't know this guy!"

"She knows him—he's been training her horses for four years before his untimely death in Nevada. She knew him twenty years ago when this hotel was opened and he's standing behind the ribbon." Brass picked up the last cupcake, held it in his hand for a minute. "Sometimes it takes a detective to detect." He took a bite of the cake looking extremely satisfied with his discovery.

The enjoyment of his accomplishment, and the subsequent congratulations by the others, was cut short as multiple cell phones sounded and the death of an old comedian on the eve of a reunion with a long-ago stage partner pulled the team away from continuing their dialogue of the Harcourt case. Hours seems to pass in a blur as another case—a dead body found at a gun range—came into the morgue and Sara worked placing trajectory markers in all the wounds in the body.

Nick rescued her with the offer of sharing a meal and along the way to the diner, they located Brass and Greg. Brass never refused a meal with his favorite CSI and told her so in front of the two men. Over breakfast food, served late in the afternoon, they ate and she talked about Paris, about the French policemen, and about Grissom's enjoyment of his work.

"He's brave—I'm not sure I'll ever retire—take on something else. I've always done what I'm doing now—I'll probably do it till I die or become so senile I can't remember my name." He chuckled. "I've tried golf and that lasted four holes. So I'm happy that he had the courage to leave." A sly grin crossed his face. "Of course, if I had a pretty peach like you waiting for me, I might go to the ends of the earth to claim her!" He loved to make Sara Sidle blush.

"I'll retire," bragged Greg, "just as soon as the first million comes in from my book."

The teasing began as Nick said, "And just how many copies have you sold? I've been checking the best seller lists."

They all knew the various stages of Greg's book publishing odyssey—in great detail, the changes he had made, the numerous rewrites, the fact checkers who questioned paragraph after paragraph—and the book remained unpublished.

Less than twenty-four hours later, the Harcourt case was thrown into full activation as Mrs. Harcourt flew into Vegas and was picked up at the airport in a limo driven by an undercover detective. Within hours, her cousin, Perry Matan, was arrested and accompanied to Vegas, appearing confused and concerned that Nevada authorities wanted to question him about two murders.

Later, Sara told Grissom about Jim's discovery of the face in the photograph which connected the dead man to the Harcourts.

"We know she lied," Sara said.

She could hear his soft laughter of satisfaction. "Jim often surprises," he said. He already knew the plans but he asked questions, reminded her to be safe.

"I am safe, dear," she assured him. "Are you packing? I'm so ready for you to get home—I'm counting days." They covered a dozen topics in twenty minutes of conversation before Sara realized he needed to be in his class.

"You are going to be late for class!"

Grissom laughed. "I'm almost there now—they will wait. Sara, be careful—know I love you." His last words were said in a whisper.

"And I love you. I'll call later…" She kept the call active until she heard voices in a classroom and Grissom's phone went quiet.

It was mid-afternoon the next day when Marcy Harcourt was escorted into the police department, provided the most polite courtesies the county had to offer, including a mention of how much the sheriff appreciated her responding to their request for an interview. She did not notice her cousin sitting in the interrogation room, but his face blanched as he watched her walk by surrounded by Ecklie, Brass and Catherine.

Nick and Sara watched through the one-way mirror. He said, "She doesn't have a clue." Brass and Catherine followed the woman into one of the waiting areas; Sara knew Catherine was suggesting the interview room as a place with more privacy.

The two CSIs silently welcomed Greg as he joined them; on one side of the mirror was the man from Florida, confusion apparent on his face and by the nervous drum of his fingers on the table. Marcy Harcourt was smiling at Brass as he indicated a chair for her and placed a slim file on the table; he asked if she wanted something to drink and got a pleasant response. Before he or Catherine sat down, both phones buzzed in a pre-planned signal setting in motion a well-planned performance that everyone hoped would lead to a declaration of guilt.

Leaving the folder on the table, Brass and Catherine left Mrs. Harcourt giving profuse apologies as they closed the door. The three behind the mirror watched as the woman casually inspected her long fingernails.

Brass opened the door of the observation room, handing Greg a dollar, he said, "Buy the lady a diet soda." He and Nick went into the room where Perry Matan waited. Greg delivered the drink, along with a cup, and returned to the one-way viewing room. Catherine, Sara and Greg watched as Brass placed a photograph on the table and turned it for Mr. Matan to see.

"What's this?" Matan asked as his face reddened. Brass placed a second and third photograph on the table.

"This is Cal," Brass said, "alive and dead. And this is Cal, Marcy Harcourt, you, and a couple of other people who are dead. And you are fingered for their deaths." Brass pointed at the twenty year old photograph.

Suddenly, Sara was tired. She placed a hand against the wall, afraid to relax, afraid she might slide to the floor. Greg, Catherine, nor Ecklie noticed her fatigue as they watched the unfolding scenes in both rooms. Marcy Harcourt had carefully opened the folder left on the table in front of her to find a photo of a very dead Cal Walker. She had quickly closed the file and returned to picking her nails between sips of her drink.

Brass was going on about Cal Walker and the missing rock climber, about Howard Harcourt and money. "And there is the murder of Harcourt's mother," he pulled another photograph from the folder, "in France."

Sara unwrapped a hard candy and stuck it in her mouth, hearing Greg snicker as Matan looked as though he had stepped into another universe, as though he wasn't sure where he was at all. The man looked from Brass to Nick who had walked to the mirror and leaned against it.

Matan shook his head slowly. "Jee-sus, Jesus Christ on a cross." His face had gone from red to white in seconds. Sweat popped out on his face.

Brass stood and joined Nick near the wall. "We have not searched for tickets or passports but we think you're good for the murder of an old lady and one call to Interpol will get what we need. But before we turn you over to the French, we'll nail you to the wall for two murders in Nevada—Harcourt and Walker—based on the purchase of," he pulled a copy of a receipt out of his jacket, "Stealth Climbing shoes." Brass dangled the slip of paper between his fingers. "We are also looking for your cousin—or I think he's your cousin—Jack Hatton or Jack Huston—Jack somebody—who hasn't turned up to go rock climbing. I think you killed your cousin Jack, too."

"I didn't…"

As soon as the words were uttered, the man knew, as did every person watching, he had admitted to murder. He stumbled, stammered, to correct himself, all the while knowing it was too late. "I didn't kill Howard's mother—I didn't kill an old woman." His eyes were wide with emotion—fear, fright, panic flashed in seconds. "I didn't kill Cal…Jack—Jack ain't dead—I didn't…"

Ecklie asked Sara if she would join Catherine to talk with Mrs. Harcourt who had become visibly more agitated as she waited. Sara hated to leave the unfolding story told by Perry Matan, but she also wanted to be in the room when Marcy Harcourt saw the box of "evidence" that had been gathered and she needed to sit down. She placed another candy in her mouth and offered to get drinks for both of them before going into the next room. She and Catherine left Ecklie and Greg watching and listening as two stories were built and woven and fabricated.

Denial of involvement was useless and Brass moved back to the table. Matan "rolled" as they would later say. He denied, accused, and finally admitted it was so easy, so simple, so foolproof to kill Howard Harcourt after his wife had tied him to a chair for those "games they played." And incredibly profitable—except Cal Walker could not wait to pawn the watch, Matan complained.

"Marcy killed him—we got him in the car and drove out—west somewhere in the mountains—she was furious—mad! Nearly killed him in the car! We kept telling her to get him back to Florida, but no! She did it without thinking—without a plan! Stupid bitch!" Perry Martan held nothing back once he began talking and Nick had the camera running. "She's the one who handed the box cutter to Jack to cut his eyes out—she was tired of begging for everything from that penny pinching puss she married."

Much later, Sara lay on the bed, phone in her hand and reported to Grissom how Marcy Harcourt calmly denied any involvement in killing anyone—her cousin was lying; the men had wanted her husband dead for years, she insisted. For several minutes she was adamant—they wanted his money, they wanted to blackmail her, to involve her in some scam, to incriminate her in any way. When Sara pulled a pipe wrench from the evidence box, Mrs. Harcourt did not even ask for a lawyer; the woman was stunned into several minutes of silence. The clear bag was dusted by dark fingerprint powder but it was obvious what was inside. The woman visibly paled.

And later, as everyone related and described what they had seen and heard, Greg said, "She turned ashen—totally colorless—when you placed the brochure of the spa in front of her! Talk about guilt…"

"Gil, we were going from one room to the other—I wish you could have been with us! We were running on adrenaline! Three minutes after her cousin said she handed the box cutter over, Ecklie came in and let her see the tape! She nearly went through the wall—she was pounding the table calling him a liar—I know she would have killed him!"

Grissom let her talk.

Sara continued, "She never realized we didn't have the pipe wrench she used—Nick had gotten one from the garage! She thought we had the murder weapon—and she had thrown it out of the car window!" Grissom heard Sara's pleased laughter. "She thinks we had the French National Guard searching the roadside to find it—only later did Brass tell her it wasn't the one she used and by then she had twisted her story in so many ways, she couldn't remember what she had said!" For a few seconds Sara was quiet. Grissom waited. "This is one case where the bad guys were incredibly dumb and we were incredibly lucky." Her laugh returned, "This has been a most satisfying case, Gil."

Grissom knew her so well he could hear the pleasure in her voice as she sighed. He was nine hours ahead of her by the clock. He said, "Are you sleeping, eating? No sickness?"

She was not entirely truthful when she said, "I'm fine—tired from jet lag, I think. And missing you." She gave a soft laugh. "I'm off tonight and I plan to sleep for fifteen hours."

"Have you talked to Catherine? Have you told her yet?" His voice was gentle, loving, an undercurrent of emotion.

"After I go to the doctor—when you get home—I'll tell her then. She's so busy and so much is going on. Ray is constantly on this Jekyll killer—she doesn't need one more thing to worry about." She laughed again. "And I'm fine—really I am, Gil."

_A/N: This case is closed, but we are continuing this story for a few more chapters-we do bring Grissom home shortly! (Unlike CSI writers who seem to want to keep his where-abouts a secret!)_


	14. Chapter 14

_**A/N: **Getting us to 'current time', and the rest of this story is our own fiction of what happens! Enjoy!_

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 14**

Sara did not get her fifteen hours of sleep. Her phone woke her during her seventh hour; a female body had been found in a vacant lot near the Strip. Greg picked her up and their good-natured bantering during the drive put them in a good mood even though both were suffering from lack of sleep. Neither could envision coming events that would make sleep deprivation the least of their worries.

The dead blonde reporter had photos of murdered men, known victims of the killer named "Dr. Jeykll". Catherine, in a moment of aggravation, sent Langston home where Nick, Sara and Greg found him working on his own investigation. Over Brass' objections, Nate Haskell was brought from Ely and placed in a cell. Hours later, the horrifying call went out of "officers down" and one was Nick Stokes.

Sara was the first one of the team to arrive at the restaurant, talking to Grissom at the same time. Grissom had managed to remain calm hearing the panic in her voice as words tumbled and distorted in explaining what she knew.

He heard the familiar sounds of emergency workers and heard Sara asking about Nick. "He's going to be okay, Gil—he was wearing a vest! It stopped the bullet." He could hear relief in her voice now.

"You okay, Sara?"

"I am—thanks, I'm—I'll go to the hospital with him and call you later. He's going to be fine."

But before she could drive Nick home, Langston had been attacked. Sara did not call Grissom. It was the middle of the night, she reasoned to herself, and he needed to sleep. She texted a message about Langston as Nick kept insisting he could manage by himself.

"I have no one at home, Nick. I'll stay—make you toast when you wake up." She laughed at his grimace. "I can even make coffee. Get some sleep—I'll sleep on your sofa."

Nick finally agreed but insisted she sleep in his second bedroom, not the living room. She stretched out, holding her cell phone in her hand so she would feel the vibration when Grissom called—as he would when he woke. She knew she had been asleep for a few hours when the quiet buzz and pulsing of the phone woke her.

"Where are you?" Grissom asked.

"Sleeping at Nick's house—he's pretty sore, and pretty stubborn." She rubbed her eyes and sat up.

"What happened to Ray?"

She described the attack on Langston.

Grissom groaned. "He wasn't paying attention—I'm with Brass. You don't bring a monster into the building and give him what he wants." He paused. "Sara, I'm worried about you—I'm always worried about you. Come back to Paris, help me pack our things—we'll go to Rome or Lake Como. You don't have to do this."

"Oh, Gil," she said, softly, suddenly grateful to hear his concern. "I'm fine—I'll be careful—for you and for little," her voice dropped lower, "for this little Grissom we've made. Promise."

"Okay—she needs a healthy mom." He chuckled. "Maybe we should think up a nickname so you won't have to whisper—Bugsy or Little Euro—so we can talk about this secret until we make our big announcement."

Sara leaned back against the pillows, relaxing, knowing Grissom had moved away from the gruesome aspects of her job—something he did not miss after he left. She repeated all she knew about Langston's condition as well as how the killer had been found and about the dead policeman.

"Nick's pretty torn up about that—he says he sent him in without thinking," Sara said.

Grissom asked, "Have you gotten any sleep?"

She laughed. "I was until I answered the phone. If you will talk to me, I think I can sleep again."

This was a new routine—Grissom would read to her in French, usually the daily newspaper until her breathing slowed and relaxed and he would say "Sleep well, dear Sara." And with those words she would close the phone and sleep. He read to her tonight, reading travelogues, restaurant reviews, social events, even fashion reviews, but nothing about death, rape, kidnapping, lost children, or financial disasters.

_Grissom sat at the table_ until his coffee grew cold; he was ready to go home—and home meant Sara. Looking around the small apartment, he tried to envision how much he needed to pack and how long it would take him. The damp nose on his knee brought him back to the present time and he got up to take Hank for his morning walk. When he returned, he carried three sturdy packing boxes. It was a start, he thought.

He had to dig around in a drawer to find airline flight papers for the dog but when he did, he made a phone call and in thirty minutes had arranged a flight for Hank, Heather, and himself. He made another call to a world-wide shipping service and set an appointment for pick up of several boxes. Glancing at his watch, he hurried—he had more than a class to teach today.

Hours later, he had been successful; to celebrate, he stopped at one of the small jewelers and placed a custom order. He spent an hour deciding what he wanted. The engraver promised everything would be ready in two days—plenty of time, he assured Grissom. Then Grissom returned to the apartment and packed the three boxes with books and clothing. He needed more boxes—they had arrived in Paris with a suitcase and a duffle bag each and now, as he packed to leave, he shook his head as he sealed the third box. They had found plenty of books and several small paintings and an assortment of odd things a tourist buys, or a temporary resident buys. He held up three dish towels with Italian recipes printed on each, bought when they went to Lake Como, folded all three and stuck them between two books. He would pack it all and deal with it later. He chuckled; he had done the same with his office when he retired.

Sara called frequently, reporting on Nick and Langston, and the fiasco that led to the death of a young policeman, Nick's injuries, and Langston losing a kidney. "Lots of shouting, accusing, Ecklie was on a warpath! Brass was—you know how Brass can get—Greg and I took him to dinner and we couldn't get him to calm down."

Knowing their days apart were finally coming to an end, they were reluctant to limit their early morning and late night telephone calls. Grissom talked as he packed; Sara told and retold each conversation she had during her shift. She planned what they would do when he returned—she would take a week off, she said.

"And I'm not telling everyone—I'll tell Catherine and plead for privacy. If I tell Nick and Greg and Jim they will want to be at the airport to pick you up—then take up all your time!" And she would be teased unmercifully.

Then the bombs went off at the funeral service. Sara stood in the morgue and tried to hide her tears from Doc Robbins as she talked about the young men who would not be able to watch their children grow. Her stress, fatigue, frustration, and hormones gave her a fight-or-flight response when an agitated crowd instigated a brawl resulting in a deep cut where her knuckles met the woman's mouth.

_Jim Brass and Al Robbins met in the coroner's office_; Brass slipping into the morgue at the end of Doc Robbins' shift. They could talk about a dozen things, but in minutes they were both talking about the same person.

Doc said, "She came in when the two guys were on the table—I didn't like her looks then. I heard she jumped into that fracas with the white supremacy group and ended up with a busted hand."

Brass had to wipe his face to hide his grin. "Yeah, she did. And I'm sure she hasn't told her husband because I haven't heard from him for a regular butt-chewing—like I could do anything to stop her!" He shook his head. "I'm not sure our old friend really knows what he's gotten into, but—hey, if she's happy—he's happy."

Doc Robbins maneuvered to a tall stool and rested his crutches. "Noticed anything else?"

His tone of voice, the lift of eyebrows, and a slight tug on the corners of his mouth made Brass lean back in his chair, a chuckle forming in an instant. "Are you sure?"

"No—not sure, but I'd give a professional opinion that Mrs. Grissom is more than a few weeks into a pregnancy. I heard her vomiting one morning several weeks ago when she thought no one was around. No—I didn't check it, but she's covering her belly. Buttoning up a lab coat, wearing a loose fitting jacket when she's inside—she's wearing her vest most of the time isn't she?"

Brass grinned, the smile wrinkling his face from brow to chin. "You think Grissom's done the deed?" He couldn't stop himself from laughing, passing a hand across his mouth in an attempt to gain control, but instead, he laughed harder.

Doc Robbins shook his head, joining with laughter. "We shouldn't laugh," he said as the two long-time friends chuckled over their discovery. They had shared gossip, true or not, for years and this one caused a lifting of spirits for both.

Sara finally got to sleep after talking with her husband and she did not tell him about her hand. By the time he got home, her hand would be healed and the bandage gone. He would worry unnecessarily, she decided. She had not really gotten into a fight, and there wasn't any real danger—the woman had practically walked into Sara's fist—when there were a dozen policemen around her. But even after talking with Grissom, his voice calm as he talked about packing and getting a carrier for the kitten, flashes of the past week's events came to her as she lay in the dark room. Sadness settled over her for a while but she managed to stop the creeping gloom, backing away from what she knew could come. She thought of her husband and his return home; they would remain here for a time, at least until their baby was born. That thought drove everything else out of her mind. She could sense the nearness of Grissom as she placed her hand on her abdomen. A feeling of ease and languor seemed to fill and saturate her thoughts and she lapsed into sleep.

A shark in a swimming pool, a dead girl, one casino mogul trying to ruin another filled the next shift and rolled into a double. Sara was too tired to move when she finally made it to the locker room. When Catherine said she would take Greg with her to another dead body, Sara turned off her work phone and headed home; the desire to hear Grissom's voice as the only calming presence in her day kept her going until she was stretched across the bed, phone in her hand.

"I'm so ready to hear your voice," she said.

_A/N: Got to get Grissom home! Reviews get us to work faster!_


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: TWO Chapters this week! Just for you-you know who you are! Grissom returns!_

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 15**

"I am so happy to have a trick roll in a sleazy hotel tonight," Nick said as he closed his kit. "And two of us working it."

Sara laughed with him. "It's a slow night—after a week—no, two weeks of full moons or whatever it is that makes people go crazy."

"Eat?" He asked as they left the hotel room. The deputies knew where to find the hooker and it would take twelve hours for her to spend what she had stolen and be back at the same hotel.

They drove to the nearest diner, not Franks, but probably Frank's brother's place, and ordered enough food for four people. They talked until Sara's personal phone buzzed and she left the table to talk to Grissom. Nick smiled and helped himself to four pickles on her plate. Raising a hand to their waitress, he ordered two slices of pie with ice cream knowing Sara was always up for dessert.

When she returned to the table, the smile on her face was enough for Nick to know things were well with married life, or as well as it could be when one spouse was on another continent.

Nick asked, "When?" There was no need for the rest of the question.

"He's packing, has another week of class and needs to wrap up his research." She slid into the booth. "Thanks," she indicated the pie. "And he's returning with Hank—wants to fly on the same plane—and our kitten."

"Grissom got a kitten in Paris!" Nick chuckled, shaking his head. "I never thought Grissom was a cat man."

"He wasn't—she's my cat. And he's come to love her just as I do." She dipped a spoonful of ice cream. A sly grin formed across her face. "And I named her Heather." She held the spoon mid-way to her mouth and watched Nick.

Just as she expected, he choked, coughed and said, "You named her what?" He started laughing. "Heather—you named your kitten Heather?"

She nodded, her smile breaking across her face.

Several seconds passed before clarification dawned in his eyes. "Hank and Heather, I get it now." He shook his head as quiet laughter swelled and rose in his chest. He knew no one had ever figured out why Grissom named his dog after Sara's old boyfriend and now Sara had gotten even or settled that score with a cat named Heather. He couldn't wait to pass this news to Greg.

He pointed his spoon in her direction. "You like this—like being married—don't you." He grinned, teasing her. "Don't lie to me Sara Sidle Grissom," he said as he exaggerated her last name.

Sara's eyes grew dark as she replied. "Honestly, Nick, it's better than I ever thought it would be—even living apart—it works for us," a smile played around her mouth. "It—I've found my home, Nick. All my life I lived in temporary places until Grissom and now I know, right here," she placed her hand across her chest, "I know we are home—I have a home, it doesn't matter where we are—in that tiny little apartment in Paris or here, or thousands of miles apart." She paused, "Does that make any sense?"

Nick nodded his head. "It does, Sara. It makes perfect sense." He smiled as he finished his pie and she took the last bite of ice cream. He knew his friends were happy.

Back in the lab Sara worked on several open cases, helped Greg with evidence he had brought in, and reviewed several pending cases before placing them on Catherine's desk.

"Go home, Sara. You don't have to stay the entire shift when it's like this," Catherine said.

Sara looked up, surprised that Catherine would tell her to leave when there was always paperwork to do. "I don't mind—I'll clock out and come back to help. It's not like I have a lot to do at home."

Catherine placed her hand on top of the stack of files. "I'll do these—go home, rest. You never know what's going to happen tomorrow." She moved the files and asked, "When is Grissom coming home?"

Sara took the empty chair across from Catherine. "I—I've been meaning to talk about that. He'll be home in a week or ten days—his class ends in a week, he wants to wrap up his research project. But I'd like to have a few days off—a week, maybe—when he gets home if I can. I know it puts everyone in overtime when I take off, but…"

Catherine smiled, "Sara, I'm so happy to have you here—two nights a week or every night—I'll take it. I know you think I'm not looking for someone, but I am—I actually thought Wendy might get into field work, but she's decided to," Catherine shrugged her shoulders, "to leave. She's moving to Portland." She leaned forward, "Do you think you will stay—here for a while once Grissom returns? You can work part-time, two, three times a week, even in the lab." She sighed. "I guess I'm afraid you two will head to some exotic location to study bugs."

"I think we'll be here—at least for a while. The university has asked Grissom to work on a research project they have—at Red Rocks—so I'll be around and willing to work as long as you need me."

"Thanks, Sara. Go home—sleep for a long time. I don't know how Grissom did this for so long." She waved her hand. "Plan on taking a week—whenever he gets home, just call and you're off." She laughed as Sara got up. "Who knows, I might need a week to be with my honey one of these days."

As Sara left the lab, she smiled as she thought of Catherine and Lou Vartann. Both had worked together for years, and only recently had discovered each other—maybe it was true love for both. She decided to stop at the grocery store before heading home; she could use some real food instead of the usual bagel, peanut butter, and orange juice she had in the kitchen.

_The two men pushed the large dog crate into the garage closet_ and managed to get the door closed. "Thanks, Jim; this means a lot—especially keeping quiet." Grissom said as Brass helped him unload a suitcase, a dog, a small cat carrier and a duffle bag from Brass' car.

"Just do not tell Sara my part in this plot—not until she's happy!"

For forty-eight hours, Jim Brass had kept a secret that no one else in Las Vegas knew. Grissom's call to Sara earlier in the day had been made from Newark as he changed planes. The two men hauled everything into the house and hid evidence of Grissom's homecoming before taking a few minutes to talk about the past six months while drinking coffee.

"I gotta go," Brass said. He pointed an index finger at Grissom. "Take her away from all this—keep her safe—and happy."

Grissom could not recall the minute, or the certain event which caused him to decide to leave Paris as he did, earlier than planned—Nick's injury had frightened him, Langston's attack had increased his fear, and the bombs in the cemetery had shaken him as nothing had in a year. That event was enough—he was too far away. He had arranged for another visiting lecturer to take over the last week of his class and had managed to wrap up most of the research he needed to do in the lab. He still had results to write, but he could do that at his desk at home. Ultimately, he decided who he cared about was more important than all the research in Paris—or anywhere else.

Alone, Grissom explored the condo he and Sara had purchased together. It was pleasant, comfortable, and home—due primarily to Sara's desire to make a home and her well balanced sense for eclectic decorating. She had furnished the place, using many of the things he had gathered and stuck away for years. Even when he retired, he had piled boxes everywhere and she had taken great care to unpack most of them, placed some of the things he had in his office around the house, and labeled other boxes for storage.

In the bedroom, he looked around, everything orderly and uncluttered; the bed was made, Sara's things on the dresser were neatly arranged. He lifted the top of the dark wood box she used for a jewelry box to find it as organized as the rest of the house. Sliding open a drawer, he found shirts and underwear folded and tidy. His habit was to throw everything in a drawer and close it. Not his wife.

Glancing at his watch, he thought he had enough time to walk Hank and shower before Sara arrived home. He had placed the kitten, still groggy from her flight medication, in the second bedroom with water and food. Hank had managed much better in his larger carrier and had gotten a brisk walk in Newark when they changed planes but was begging for exercise. The two left after Grissom placed coffee cups in the dishwasher.

Within fifteen minutes of man and dog leaving, Sara pulled into the garage, gathered her grocery bags and entered the house. She had placed everything in the refrigerator before she began to notice the little things—a spoon on the countertop she did not remember using, one of the stools was pushed back from the counter, a corner of a throw rug folded over the rug. Puzzled, she walked into the bedroom and found nothing out of place—except her little jewelry box was askew, slightly out of kilter, from its normal position. She lifted the top and found everything as it should be.

Turning around, confusion clouded her face as she tried to remember her steps before she left for work. She could have used the spoon and forgotten; she was in a hurry but she didn't remember walking across the rug. She walked to the door of the bathroom and pushed the door open; at once she stepped back as what she saw caused a chilly ripple across her skin.

The commode seat was up.

Someone had been in her home. Soothing the urge to panic, she backed away from the bathroom and reached for her cell phone, remembering it was in the jacket she had left in the kitchen. She did not run, but she hurried, hesitating when she grabbed the phone, unsure of who to call. At that moment, she heard a noise at the front door and whirled around. Quickly, she thought about running out the door to the garage, but in the same second, her eyes saw brown—a furry brown leg, a black nose, and a familiar dog entered the house.

Sara blinked rapidly as she tried to comprehend what her eyes were seeing with what her brain knew. Hank was shoving the door open with his nose as he had for years and before she could move, a pair of feet and legs came in the door; her eyes traveled upward to Grissom's face and her mouth dropped open.

When she heard her name, she reacted, dropping the phone and taking the steps from kitchen to living room in one bouncing vault and clearing the space across the floor in two more leaps. When she reached Grissom, both were laughing and running words together that neither understood.

"I meant to get back before you got home," Grissom said as he seized her in both arms. "Hank had to go out—and you are early!"

"How did you get here? Two weeks—I thought it would be at least two weeks!" Sara's hands clutched his face, her fingertips touched his hair, her thumbs swept across his chin. "You are really here—here." Her emotions played across her face as sudden tears developed in her eyes and she hugged him as tightly as he held her. Their lips finally met.

In the next few minutes, between kisses and quiet laughter, each heard or said words that explained how each had gotten home earlier than planned, Jim Brass was mentioned, a stop at the grocery store, packing, the kitten, a flight with one stop. And somehow Sara stammered out her frightening moments when she realized someone had been in the house.

"Jim," Grissom said. "Bathroom before he left." They both laughed and kissed again.

The dog broke their bond by managing to get his nose, and then his head between their knees. Even then Grissom kept both arms around Sara, realizing how much he had missed her, craved her touch, and ached for her body. At some point, within minutes of having her in his arms, he felt the bandage on her hand and when Hank succeeded in separating them for a few minutes, he took the wrapped hand in his.

Sara spoke words of welcome and comfort to Hank, bending over to stroke him several times before Grissom pulled her back up. Holding her wrist, he inspected her hand.

"What's this, dear?" He asked.

Sara grimaced, squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds, realizing she had to explain why her hand was bandaged. Opening her eyes to intense blue ones, she took a deep breathe.

"Jim didn't tell you?" She asked, eyes flickering as she tried to determine if he already knew. "I sort of loss my temper."

Concern and care filled Grissom's eyes. "What did you hit?" Sara realized he did not know—Brass had said nothing.

"A—a woman," and suddenly, she was more embarrassed and ashamed than fearful. "It's not bad—a meeting sort of erupted into a brawl when we entered the building and my fist sort of met a mouth." Her voice had trailed into a whisper as she explained.

Instead of anger or annoyance, Grissom's voice was unruffled as he said, "Is that the only place you are hurt?" He wrapped arms around her again, bringing her against his chest so she could rest against his shoulder.

She nodded as she kissed his neck.

"Was it after Nick was hurt?"

She nodded again. "But before the bomb went off when Greg went out with Catherine—and it was really my turn but I was so tired and Catherine sent me home."

He turned his face to hers and kissed her; this time in a prolonged, passionate kiss that showed her his true feelings.

Unexpected as his surprise return was to Sara and with any previous plans uncompleted or forgotten, the same thought seemed to occur to both at the exact moment. The two lovers laughed and hugged and undressed each other until they were standing nearly naked in the bathroom.

"Big shower," whispered Grissom.

"Plenty of room," responded his wife as she adjusted water temperature.

The original bathroom had been part of the reason they had purchased the condo—it was an enormous room. Before moving in, they had redesigned the space for a very large tub and an even larger shower. Today they both knew their money had been well-spent as Sara stepped inside. For a few seconds, Grissom watched, well-aware of the growing heat in his groin, as water cascaded over Sara's shoulders and back. She turned, eyes closed, so water flowed over her face.

He had forgotten how water drops pooled on her lashes and made cute little waterfalls as it dropped to her cheeks. His eyes followed the path of falling water as she tipped her face and water spilled onto her chest—her breasts rose and fell with her breathing. His breath caught at the sight of her body turning to him causing a sudden surge in heat and blood flow; he had become completely erect in thirty seconds of watching her.

Stepping inside the shower, he reached arms around her and pulled her back to his chest. The cleft of her butt snuggled against him as she turned her face and met his lips. His hands reached her belly, stayed there for a minute as he gently caressed her. Her arms had circled his back, pulling them together. His hands dipped lower and as his fingertip slipped between her intimate folds, Sara gasped and turned. Her hand was already at his hip; she moved it to his penis and folded her palm around him.

"Oh, Sara, I—I…"

Her lips covered his mouth as she backed to the wall, never letting him go. Her leg went around his thigh and as warm water streamed across his back, his hands cradled her backside; he lifted and entered her as a passionate moan came from deep within both. If Grissom had been able to think, to process the sound of Sara's moan, he would have heard a muffled, loving word, "home" as Sara's emotions tipped into climax.

_A/N: Got Grissom back to Vegas-now we are taking a short fall break. Back with the next chapter after the weekend! Now leave a review! Let us know who's reading this one! A little angst coming soon-prepare!_


	16. Chapter 16

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 16**

Maybe it was because he had lived as a monk for so long, or maybe it was being with the right woman, or knowing she was carrying his child, whatever the reason Grissom felt like the monogamous bald eagle performing acrobatic acts in a cloudless sky for his mate. And he had taken none of those often advertised medications as he eyed his slick penis—still somewhat erect after the extremely energetic activity in the shower. Reluctantly, he had finally withdrawn and the wide-eyed look of astonishment on Sara's face matched his own—and she had been delighted and delightful, lathering him with soap and covering him with kisses that barely brushed his skin, but caused him to flush under the heat of her lips.

He did the same to her as he sat on the shower bench; she straddled his thighs and came again as he stroked, played, and nuzzled her with fingers and lips. In the middle of her second climax, he realized he was on the brink of organism and shoved his erection into her. His butt left the bench as powerful strokes moved his body and the last conscious thought he had was of the smooth tongue of rapture flooding through his thighs, hips, and to the head of his penis.

Afterwards, he limped to the bed where both collapsed. He was unable to make a sound other than a moan. However, his giggling wife, who had also participated in the mind-blowing action in the shower, recovered faster than any woman had a right to, talking to him in the sweetest, sexiest voice he had ever heard—even her questions about the kitten seemed laden with sex—and her hands and fingers kept moving, circling, touching him in erotic ways that fanned the spark of passion again. At some point, she left the bed and returned with orange juice. The tangy taste of her lips, her tongue, as she kissed him made him groan with urgency. His body responded, growing firm with desire.

"I'm not sure about this," he whispered.

Sara giggled in her sexy, husky way meant only for his ears. "I've been saving up, waiting—and obviously, so have you!" She kissed his neck, his shoulder, his chest, tasting him as she slowly slipped lower. Her palm and fingers gently massaged and stroked until he stopped her exploring hand. He could take only a few minutes of the hot pleasure of being touched intimately by those wonderful long fingers.

Slowly, with deliberate moves, he shifted in bed, bringing his knee to hers and, using a slight pressure, he pushed her legs apart so his growing erection fit against her thigh. The light reflected in her luminous dark eyes, making him smile as he let his hand slide along her bare abdomen. He leaned down and kissed the valley between her breasts.

Sara was surprised at his resilience; he was always the lover she desired, but today, he was so much more. She had suppressed a laugh as he limped from shower to bed; he loved to act old when his vigor, his strength and energy, often surpassed that of younger men working around him. And while her experience was limited, and he was the only older partner she had ever had, she knew his sexual response was quicker and faster than most males—at least from her reading about such things.

Grissom had dosed when she had gone to the bathroom, dropping into sleep in five minutes. She had taken time to check on Hank, who was sleeping on the sofa, and the kitten, still asleep in the carrier, and she had called Catherine.

"I already know, Sara. Jim came in before I left telling the news! Enjoy some well-deserved time off."

Sara said, "If you need me, call. Gil may sleep for two days." She heard Catherine laughing as the call ended.

Taking a glass of orange juice back to bed, she found Grissom was waking, or wakeful, with a large protuberance covered by the sheet. She burst into giggles at his suggestion to "take care of this" as he was uncomfortable and couldn't sleep. As soon as she was in bed, he pressed a knee between her legs, separating her thighs, and proceeded to strategically place his hand against her. His fingers threaded and touched her in the most intimate fashion and within seconds of being on the receiving end of a very deep kiss, a wonderful aching sensation began to build within her.

By the time he rolled on top of her, she twisted against him, seeking more, aware of his erection probing the damp, throbbing entrance of her body. Yet he continued working his fingers, in and out of her until she felt she was melting between her legs, until she almost screamed. Seeming to sense her silent shout, his hands went to her butt and he moved inside her with long, hard thrusts. The pressure was unbelievably exciting; instinctively she wrapped her legs around him. He gripped her hips with both hands and went deeper, so deep she actually remembered she whimpered seconds before her climax slammed through her.

Grissom's release surged through him in a way that, for a few seconds, the two seemed to fuse together in a sensation that was so exquisitely intimate, so strong that only automatic responses occurred as they went limp; Sara was faintly aware of tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes.

Grissom came back to his senses, aware of a nearly boneless sensation; his body wanted to collapse, but he braced his elbows on either side of Sara's warm, soft body. Her long legs, only a few moments ago a snug vise around his thighs, fell away, spreading on either side of his. He took in the sight of her, eyes closed, dark crescents of lashes lay against her fair skin, dark lips that were slightly swollen. He had a sense of euphoric satisfaction unlike anything he had known in weeks—months.

When she stirred, opening her eyes, he was surprised to see the glint of tears. His knuckle touched her eye. "Why these?"

"Intense, that's all. Unbelievably intense, dear."

He chuckled and kissed the tracks made by her tears. "Try exhausting, indescribably intense." He lifted himself and move to stretch beside her. His hand moved from her chin to her belly. "Do you suppose if we lived separately again we can always have this kind of reunion sex?"

Sara gave him an odd smile. "Trust me, Gil Grissom, we will not live separately again—at least not for months! Maybe not for weeks. I might let you go away for a few days, but not for months." Her hand came to his face and she took one finger and traced a line from his eyes to the cleft in his chin. "I love you, Gil—very much."

His hand cradled her abdomen. "When is your next appointment?" He leaned over and kissed her belly just above her navel.

"Next week—I'm still in a state of shock, I think," Sara said. "I've read three books and I keep thinking 'is this really happening?' and then I throw up!"

He managed to hide his frown. "I've been reading—a little," he admitted.

She knew what that meant. "I'm labeled as 'high-risk' so I get more appointments."

"Okay, tell me what that means—how long have you known this?" His voice was soft, but concerned.

Rolling to face him, she explained: "Over 35 years old, more blood tests, and amniocentesis around four months. Who knows what else—that's as far as I got in the paperwork. It's enough to scare me into a convent!" Her matter-of-fact explanation turned to a giggle, saying "I can't get my mind around having a baby—it's so abstract, I guess." Her hand went again to his face. "I'm so happy to have you home," wiggling her hips against his. "Even if we had not had this mind altering, knock-out, sensational sex, I'd still be happy you are home." She grew serious. "I think—I think now that you are home, this baby making business will be easier. I'll have someone to talk with and make plans with," she smiled, mischievously. "And you can hold my hand when I throw up!"

Grissom's face was so solemn, so serious, Sara touched his lips with her fingertip. "I've really been doing very well—only nauseous a few times and vomiting a few times."

With a gentleness he had come to expect and love, she bent her arm underneath her head and pulled his head against her chin. He wrapped his arms around her as he felt a light kiss against his hair.

She whispered, "I'm exhausted, husband. I need a nap."

In minutes, both were asleep, entangled in each other's arms and legs, soft covers awry, and they slept the way exhausted lovers do—hours before one moved, opened one eye and tried to decipher time by the light, or lack of light from windows. Sara kissed Grissom's forehead and when he did not respond, she quietly slipped from bed. She played with Heather and put more food out for the kitten who was still sluggish but growing more alert and playful. Hank raised his head, watched Sara in the kitchen for a few minutes before returning to sleep.

Eventually, Grissom woke and ambled into the kitchen where Sara was toasting a bagel. She looked into his eyes, excited to see him, in love with him, simply happy he was home. He followed her movements around the kitchen for several minutes before disappearing into the bedroom.

"I forgot," he said when he returned. "I brought you something." He held a long slim jewelry box in one hand and when she looked puzzled, he flipped it open. Inside, a delicate gold braided bracelet with small oval charms lay on a band of velvet. Sara lifted one end of it and noticed each charm had an engraving on both sides—a date and a name of a city.

She smiled, "Oh, Gil," she whispered. "It's beautiful." She read the first date; the city was San Francisco, the date they met. Her smile grew as she turned and read each one—he had remembered every significant event in their lives. "It's beautiful." Her voice caught in her throat and she kissed him.

Grissom showed her extra charms. "You can add these later—more special dates." He carefully fastened the bracelet around her wrist.

Sara, more touched by his sentimental gesture than she revealed, hugged him and wiped tears on his sleeve before turning back to the toaster. She spread peanut butter on the warm bagel and handed it to him. "You're tired," she smiled. "You should sleep."

Raking his hand across his face, he said "So should you."

They put returning to bed off because they wanted to have time together, doing the things other couples might do, marking the first day of his return. They emptied the refrigerator and ate everything—four kinds of cheese, cucumbers, tomatoes, olives, creamy thick yogurt—and then they cooked—grilled eggplant, rice pilaf, sautéed spinach and onions, and dipped chunks of fresh bread in olive oil. They walked to the park, taking the dog and an old twisted rope toy which Hank seemed to remember as his.

They made love again in the middle of the night, slowly, tenderly, knowing there was no need to hurry, and slept until late morning.

For two days, they roamed Las Vegas, drove to Red Rocks, walked among the rocks at mid-day, and returned that night to watch the stars. Sara had made sandwiches and filled a large container with tea. The bright full moon lit up the sky but they were able to pick out Venus, Saturn, and Mars as well as the Big Dipper and the Hunting Dogs. And because they had no usual sleep patterns, they sat in the car and watched the sun came up over the eastern mountains.

Returning home, Sara had a message from Catherine, apologizing first for calling and asking if she could come in to work for a few hours. A young man had been found, decapitated, in what appeared to be a ritual type killing; Catherine promised only a few hours of work in the lab. When Nick asked if she would drive to Mt. Charleston with him, Sara agreed.

_A/N: Please review! In our imaginations the rest of the story is why we don't see Grissom-or hear about his return to Vegas. Sara and Grissom are very private people-so keep reading, keep reviewing, especially for the turn of things to come! Thanks so much..._


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: Another chapter-ahead of schedule-we want those comments and reviews!_

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 17**

Sara dressed carefully for her appointment. She and Grissom had spent hours reading and signing medical forms in the thick packet sent from her physician's office—topics and procedures neither had ever heard of or thought about until now. Cord blood banking or cord blood donation, Rh compatibility, fetal nuchal translucency, plasma protein screening, human chorionic gonadotropin testing—it seemed to be an alphabet soup of terms, testing, and treatments. Grissom wrote a long list of questions they wanted to ask.

"How long is this appointment?" He asked.

Sara laughed. "The first one was short—'yes, you are pregnant, take these pre-natal vitamins, have blood work done and make an appointment' so I scheduled the first appointment of the day. They worked me in when I went the first time and the waiting room was full."

His question of: "Were there any men?" made her laugh.

"A few—they are placed in a special room, monitored by live camera." Grissom's perplexed look caused Sara to laugh again. "Like we do suspects—any wrong move is construed as guilt!"

He grumbled, "I'll be the oldest man in the room."

Sara scooted closer. "You are not old—I think Larry King claimed that trophy!" Her giggles turned to kisses, papers slid to the floor, and Hank moved from bed to floor as the study of pregnancy was interrupted by activities that were familiar and exceedingly more fun.

Catherine had kept her promise. She had not called Sara for four days and Grissom and Sara had spent long hours learning to live again in the open space of their home. Hank had immediately adapted to his former home while Heather was more cautious, skittish about new sounds and surfaces. She found security with the boxer and had taken to sleeping in his bed and the dog had accepted the kitten as a bed buddy especially when the big human bed was too active.

One afternoon, waking from a nap, they had kissed and teased and touched and made love in a slow-drawn out way of long-time lovers. Afterwards, their conversation became one that only familiar partners share with humor.

"Do you think all married couples have this much sex?" Sara asked as she lazily kissed Grissom's damp skin.

His chest rippled in a deep laugh. "No, they don't. If they did, all men would walk as funny as I do!"

Sara had laughed until her side hurt…

The obstetrician's office was quiet and empty when they arrived. The nurse performed preliminary work, asked questions, took paperwork, and left Sara to undress and put on a gown printed in pink and blue monkeys. Both snickered.

"You don't see the doctor before the exam?" Grissom asked, "What does she do first?"

The words were not out of his mouth before a soft tap on the door announced the arrival of the physician. Dr. Abbott had been Sara's physician since her first year in Las Vegas and the annual physical appointment had been their only contact until Sara arrived with her "positive" home pregnancy result. With that short visit, she knew why the waiting room was always filled with pregnant patients. The doctor radiated energy and happiness when discussing babies. There was no doubt of the passion the woman had for delivering babies.

While Sara had tried to prepare Grissom for the excitement generated by the doctor, she knew she had fallen short; the doctor did not shake hands, she hugged.

"And this is the new dad?" She said as her arms went around Grissom. Sara bit her lip to keep from laughing. "Congratulations, we've never lost a dad!" The physician continued to talk while checking Sara, asking questions about sickness, sleeping, traveling, working.

The physician looked at Grissom when she said: "I know you have dozens of questions and we'll get to them shortly." With a gentle pressure of her hand, she indicated the reclining motion of the exam table. "Mr. Grissom, some men are uncomfortable with this part of an exam, so step outside if you want."

Grissom shook his head and Sara reached for his hand. "He's strong," she said with a grin.

The doctor continued with the exam, mostly hidden behind the pink and blue monkeys. Her head popped up between Sara's knees. She was smiling. "Let's do an ultrasound today—see what we can see."

Quickly, Dr. Abbott moved a screen near Sara's head and spread a cold gel over her abdomen. She did not call for assistance and the expertise and ease she handled the transducer showed she did this on a regular basis.

"You are slim so we should get a good image of everything." In a few minutes a black and white image appeared on the screen. "That's your placenta—in a good place. See how it spreads along the uterine wall?" She guided the instrument across Sara's lower belly.

Grissom leaned over from his chair, folding Sara's hand within his, and grinned. He could see and hear a fetal heart rate, somewhat muffled and with a slight echo.

The doctor asked, "Do you want a boy or girl?"

He shook his head, "Doesn't matter. Either one—healthy."

"Well," the physician slowly moved the transducer. "Look at this," her finger traced a small bean-shaped image on the screen. "That's baby Grissom—head, spine looks good." She gave them time to adjust eyes and form an impression of what they were seeing. Slowly, she moved her hand. "The dark area is fluid," A few seconds later the screen changed again. "See this, looks good—ahh! Here's a surprise!" Another small shape appeared; a mirror image of the first.

"Oh," Sara thought the sound came from Grissom. Later, she realized it was not a word, but a surge of air out of his lungs. His hand released hers as his body went limp and the doctor was the one who said "Oops—happens sometimes!"

Grissom's collapse was slow enough that the doctor actually reached his side before he touched the floor. She eased his head to the floor and snapped an ammonia capsule underneath his nose. Instantly, he was awake, confused and making noise.

"Just stay here a minute, Mr. Grissom," said Dr. Abbott.

Sara had leaned over from the examining table guessing the ultrasound was over and once she saw that Grissom was going to be fine after his faint, she struggled to suppress a laugh. Dr. Abbott was helping Grissom up; Sara closed her eyes and bit her lip. The look of embarrassment on his face was priceless—Sara had to cover her mouth as her husband struggled a few minutes to regain his composure.

Finally, he said, "two" in a way that was more question than number.

Dr. Abbott turned to a cabinet and withdrew a small bottle of water and a candy bar. "Eat this and then we'll take another look." She glanced at Sara. "Does this happen often?"

"Never—I think he's a little overwhelmed." She put her head back on the exam table. "Did you really see a second one?"

The doctor reached for Sara's wrist. "If you faint, I'll have to call the nurses!"

"I won't faint, but are you sure there's two?" To prove her point, she sat up and crossed her legs yoga-style.

Grissom had placed his forehead in his hands. Sara reached to touch his hair. "You okay, Gil?" She got a nod. His eyes met hers.

"Twins—two, not one—I'm—I fainted, didn't I?"

Sara and the doctor laughed. Dr. Abbott said, "Yes, you did. You'll be fine in a few minutes. It happens sometimes—you slipped out of that chair before I could break a capsule." She looked from Sara to Grissom. "Are you two okay? Do you need a few minutes? I'd like to take another look."

They had another "look"—the physician made several measurements of the tiny forms; they listened to two distinct heartbeats. The echo Grissom heard was that of a second heart. And their questions multiplied as the doctor discussed the many blood tests, screenings for common birth defects, and the added risks involved in pregnancy with twins.

"We are good at—at knowing what can happen—and most pregnancies end happy with healthy babies. But we have to plan," she looked from Sara to Grissom. "We keep mom healthy and happy," and placing a hand on Grissom's knee, added "and dad the same way! Congratulations times two, Dad!" She winked at him. "Fraternal twins, I think—you may end up with one of each."

The doctor had already spent nearly an hour with them before leaving the examining room with instructions to meet in her office after Sara dressed.

Grissom had recovered well—the grin on his face kept getting bigger every time the word "two" or "twins" was said. After the door was closed, he did a little shuffle-dance very typical of male smugness. Sara tried to keep her expression serious but his antics made her smile, and then laugh as he swelled his chest and rocked his hips.

"Stud muffin," she whispered. "Hand me my pants!"

In the doctor's office, he grew serious as he asked questions that surprised Sara—he had been reading, she thought. Dr. Abbott was extremely patient in providing answers long after their appointment time had passed; they left the office with her last advice: "Take a deep breath. Enjoy each other." She smiled and winked again at Grissom. "Sara is very healthy—no cause to panic or to change what you've been doing."

Sara knew she had never seen him with the beaming smile on his face; it almost hampered his ability to speak.

"You appear to be extremely proud of yourself, Gilbert Grissom," she said. His face creased with a bigger smile.

Later, she extracted a promise: no announcement until the results of her amniocentesis. For all his cheerfulness, Grissom was well aware of the gravity of their situation. He had wanted a child; he had wanted Sara to have his baby more than he could ever admit. A child would mean she would not be left alone in the future. And now there would be two babies to care for, two children to be taught, two teenagers to educate—thinking about two of everything made his eyes hurt.

Appointments for lab work, amniocentesis, and check-ups, classes for birthing, breast feeding, baby care, and tours of the hospital's birthing and delivery options became dates marked on a calendar. Sara went back to work, and days and nights passed in a predictable routine. Grissom worked to finish his research analysis, communicating with his Paris colleagues as needed, and he talked to the local university's entomology professors about ongoing research. He wanted to work with their spider project in the desert west of Vegas, but there was also an on-going honeybee study in a valley north of the city.

When Sara finished her shift, he was always waiting without making a show of it. They ate, talked, walked the dog and played with the kitten. And they made love. They rearranged and moved things around the house several times before deciding there was limited space in the house. As much as he hated to do it, Grissom packed boxes and rented a storage unit, promising a bigger place to live. Conversations between them went from serious and solemn to funny and optimistically lighthearted in seconds.

"What if we have two boys?" He asked.

Sara replied, "We'll name one Napoleon and the other Charles de Gaulle."

"Or two girls?"

"Bridgett and Sophia or Catherine and Camille."

"No," he laughed, "not Catherine—one in my life is enough. Maybe a boy and a girl."

"Twins, Gil, what were we doing?"

His laugh started deep in his chest, rolled upward with a husky explosion of sound. "Do you think your doctor knows?"

"Knows what?" she asked.

"How much sex we are having?"

Sara laughed until tears ran from her eyes. "Yes, she knows. She saw your fingerprint on my G-spot!"

Grissom wrapped arms around her as she continued to laugh. "I can't help it," he tried to explain. "It has a mind of its own—attached to my eyes. I see you dressed and suddenly I get this hard-on. I see you undressed, brushing your hair—everything you do becomes erotic, sexy, and—and I'm instantly horny. I can't help it!"

Her giggles caused him to laugh with her and she managed to roll on top of him. "We don't want to waste this," she said as her hands closed around him, and they did not waste much time.

Later, she asked "Am I showing? Is my belly growing?"

"Definitely here," his hand cupped over her breast before sliding downward. "A little here."

"Doc Robbins looked at me today in a funny way—like he knows something."

Grissom sighed. "You need to tell Catherine."

"She can't keep a secret!"

"We'll have a party—announce our news and celebrate with everyone."

Sara kissed his chin and nestled against the crook of his shoulder and arm. She could sleep anywhere, anytime, which was a great positive side effect of pregnancy, she decided.

Grissom called his long-time physician and set up an appointment for an overdue physical. For years he had ignored his good health, until he almost lost his hearing. Yet, it had been two years since his last cardio check-up with its related blood tests, so he made the appointment.

Routine, routine, routine—Grissom repeated the mantra as he nervously waited for his physician. He had done this enough to know the procedure—even worked out his own shortcuts for jumping hoops. He had gotten all preliminary lab work done, scheduled and completed a stress test beforehand so when he met the physician it was for results, not to set up appointments.

He had denied the need for regular check-ups for years, but his close call with his hearing and his developing interest in a much younger woman had gotten him to a cardiologist. To his surprise and relief, he had his mother's genes; his heart disease risk was low. Today, the physician actually congratulated him on his lipid profile, encouraged him to continue his eating and exercise habits; visibly Grissom relaxed. The appointment had given him a renewed sense of wellness.

The doctor, a no-nonsense practitioner, cleared his throat in the way people associate with bad news. "There is one more thing." He turned the lab report so Grissom could see the numbers. "This one—has nothing to do with your heart—but it's a standard for our lab tests now. And it needs to be checked—soon." He paused long enough for Grissom to check numbers. "There's a group practice on the next floor. I can personally vouch for their excellent work if that helps."

Grissom continued to stare at the numbers. Every man in America, or almost every man, knew the initials of the test, and the number was fifteen points above normal range.

_A/N: There's always time to review! We love hearing your thoughts-so go ahead! And next chapter will appear!_


	18. Chapter 18

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 18**

Grissom took a copy of the lab report and a phone number for the specialist's office and headed home. Sara was sleeping and, for the first time in weeks, he let her sleep while he searched for information. After a shower, he clicked on reliable websites—MDAnderson, Mayo Clinic, NIH, and read; as he read despondency and pessimism crept into his mind. If he had taken time to study and explore his mood, he would have been surprised by his emotional reaction. He dialed the number for the specialist and made an appointment.

He stretched beside Sara as carefully as possible to keep from waking her, but she seemed to sense his presence in her sleep, moving to his side, murmuring a few words as her arm came across his chest. He considered keeping quiet about the lab results until he knew more; he could go to the appointment, learn as much as possible before telling her anything. She was already worried about the amniocentesis—she had tried to hide her concern, but he knew she was reading about the risks involved. When he asked for her thoughts, she had smiled and said, "Let's not talk about it until we get results." And he had agreed.

"Everything will be fine," he assured her.

He raked his hand across his face, and surprisingly, a sound came from his throat. It was loud enough to wake Sara.

"You okay?" She asked, her voice raspy with sleep. "Just now coming to bed?" She had shaken off covers and punched a pillow behind her head, her hand rubbing her face before she reached for water at the bedside. She swallowed a gulp before asking, "How was your appointment?" She placed her head on his chest. "How my sweet heart's heart?" She made a soft laugh. She had worked very hard to change his eating habits to be more heart healthy.

Grissom's fingers combed through her curly hair. "Its fine—he even bragged on my lipid numbers." He tugged her up so her face was next to his and hugged her tightly. Unexpectedly, his breath became uneven, shallow, and finally, a tremor shuddered from his abdomen to his throat as his mind tried to grasp the implications of what the unexpected lab numbers meant, of what he had spent an hour reading, of what he was about to have to tell his wife.

Sara responded immediately, concern etched on her face. "What's wrong? Your appointment? Your heart?" He was shaking his head as she moved to look at him. Her hand stayed on his chest as his covered his mouth. "Someone at work? Something happened at work?" He shook his head again.

"Sara," he whispered, pulling her into his arms, still shaking his head. He wanted her arms around him, her lips against his; he wanted to feel the warmth of her flesh on his, he wanted the intimacy they shared to last as long as he lived. Taking several minutes to do so, and only by wielding extreme control, taking deep breaths, and placing a thumb and forefinger on his eyes was he able to manage his emotions.

In those minutes, Sara was completely shaken—not his health, no one at work—she could think of nothing that would cause this kind of emotional turmoil to her husband. She soothed, she comforted, she murmured simple words of support and encouragement in an effort to elicit a response other than the shaking of his head.

Sara pulled his head to her chest and held him until his breathing returned to normal, saying nothing, asking no questions until she felt the tension in his shoulders loosen. As she continued to hold him, she thought of the many times he had done the same to her.

She whispered, "You want to tell me?" She placed her face into his hair and drew a deep breath. In an instant, an involuntary thought leaped into her mind—she loved the way he smelled. "What's happened?" she asked. Her hands cupped around his face, lifting it so she could see his eyes. She was surprised to see tears, and frowned. Her thumb gently touched his cheek. "What's wrong?"

"Sara," he said her name on a soft breath of air. "The lab work—my heart is fine—but—but not this other test." He crawled from the bed, walked into the adjoining office and returned with the folded paper. Silently, he handed it to her.

Quickly scanning the page, she stopped at the number. Her wide eyes met his, "What do we do now?"

With her response, so sincere and truthful, unadulterated by self-centered thoughts, he knew he would love her forever. She had said "we" not "you" and he realized how much he had been thinking only of himself—and how much he loved her.

"I've made an appointment—next week."

Sara nodded her head and moved in bed, patting the space beside her. "Come to bed—we'll sleep—or do something," she grinned. "Things will work out—didn't you tell me everything would be fine." She wrapped her arms around him. "And we'll go together to the appointment." She kissed his cheek, his eyebrow, holding his face between her palms. "You want to tell me what you've read."

Grissom stretched beside her; immediately, Sara placed her leg over his and rolled to her side. "Oh, Gil, I should have gone with you today."

He pulled her closer against him; his palm slid down her back. Grissom brought his mouth to hers and kissed her deeply. Warmth welled up inside him mingling with a sense of yearning; desire became so intense that he closed his eyes for several minutes.

"Gilbert," Sara whispered. "We promised to talk." She kissed his cheek again and smiled. Her knee moved up to his groin.

"This, Sara, this is what I'm afraid of losing."

She pushed herself up, her knee between his thighs. "Gil, look at me." His blue eyes flickered open to meet blazing brown ones.

He had long ago noticed how golden her eyes became when she was passionate, and today they almost glowed with fire. She leaned to his mouth and kissed him hard, crushing her lips against his. Her tongue plunged between his teeth, inviting him to taste her as she was tasting him. When they broke apart, Grissom smiled for what seemed like the first time in hours.

"I do love you, Sara," he said.

Sara's head bent to his, her hair falling on either side of her face making a private curtain framing their faces. "We'll get through this, Gil. Just like we will get through this amniocentesis and the results—we'll get through this testing—and whatever we have to do." She smiled. Her hand moved downward as her eyebrow went up. "Obviously there's nothing wrong down here—not with mechanics." She giggled as she kissed him. "Now tell me what you read."

He told her what he had spent an hour reading—what lab numbers meant, methods of identifying and diagnosing several conditions, various treatments, medications, surgeries, and long-term prognosis. He said, "I don't know what to do—if this is as bad as it seems, my—our options are limited."

While he talked, Sara stroked his back and shoulders, kissed his chest and along his jaw line. He reacted as if she had set fire to something deep inside him. Her mouth was like a warm drug on his skin, soothing and erotic at once. By the time he stopped talking, his heavy erection was pushing against her thigh.

His voice thickened with passion, "I believe you have gotten part of my mind off lab results," he chuckled. "I need to be inside you or I shall go mad."

Sara shifted as he settled himself between her legs and eased himself against her. He kissed her neck, her lips; his fingers played with her intimate folds. "You are very wet," he said as he reached down, opened her with his fingers and guided himself slowly into her snug passage. When Sara lifted her hips, he surged into her in one powerful stroke. Sara made a small sound—a gasp—and clutched his shoulders. Her teeth found his earlobe and very gently she sucked and bit his ear in a way that sent a wave of pleasure through him. Grissom eased himself partway out of her and then pushed slowly back inside her.

"Do you have any idea of how incredibly good you feel?" He asked. "Hold me," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "Hold me, Sara. I need you."

She tightened her arms around him, burying her face against his neck as her own building passion carried her into a cascade of her own place of desire. Seconds later, she felt the muscles of Grissom's back go rigid as he pumped into her; then he collapsed, his back damp, his breathing slowly recovering.

After a while, he eased himself reluctantly out of her and rolled to one side, put an arm across his eyes, and gathered her against him. "What would I do without you, Sara?" He chuckled, somewhat faintly. "I promise to always love you."

It was an ordinary day, a week later, when Sara and her husband entered a waiting room, and along with other waiting patients, began to fill out necessary health forms. Grissom let Sara answer all the questions—she knew the answers and would be far more honest than he would. She smiled as she checked several boxes.

"What do you find to smile about?" He whispered.

She leaned her mouth to his ear, "It asked how many times a week do you have sex—should I lie?" He failed to find the humor in the questions.

Fifteen minutes later, a young doctor walked in. Too young, Sara thought. In this situation, she wanted age to symbolize knowledge and experience. Without much chit chat, he got right to the lab results and proved assumptions are usually wrong. Sara could feel Grissom's posture change as the physician talked of possible reasons for the elevated number—infection, increased exercise, benign enlargement. The last possibility he mentioned was what had kept them awake, what had worried both, what they had tried not to think about for a week.

"This high level indicates something—I want to do an exam first. Then we'll do more blood work, prescribe a round of antibiotics, schedule an ultrasound. In a few days we'll know more. If it's cancer, it is treatable."

Sara waited in the doctor's office while he and Grissom disappeared into an adjoining room. At least thirty minutes passed as Sara tried to work a crossword puzzle to keep her mind focused on something. When the two men returned, they appeared to be talking as long-time friends. The physician congratulated Sara on her pregnancy, adding that he and his wife had three year old twins.

"It's a great experience—total exhaustion, total euphoria at the same time."

They left knowing little more than when they arrived, but with a handful of papers for preparation procedures for lab work, prescriptions, and appointments.

"Did you read this list?" Sara asked as they drove home. "It says no sex for four days prior to your next blood test."

"Yeah, he explained it was sort of like extreme exercise." He glanced at her. "I can sleep in the guest room."

"I'll wear baggy sweats and an old shirt," she said as she leaned to kiss him. "But you won't sleep in the guest room." She slipped her hand in his. "Everything will be fine."

All they knew, all they thought never left either one's mind, but Sara went to work; she caught herself being angry and rude once or twice, but managed to smooth things over before leaving for the day. Grissom met with the researchers at the university which seemed to lift his mood from the dismal chasm where his mind wanted to dwell. On his way home, he bought enough groceries to last a week, found Sara asleep, and proceeded to prepare her favorite pasta and sauce before she woke up.

As he checked their calendar of appointments, he realized his ultrasound and Sara's amniocentesis were one week apart—he would have results for something—or nothing—the 'something' forced its miasma into his brain. He popped the last of his antibiotic into his mouth and pushed bread into the oven. Leaning against the cool surface of the refrigerator, he sighed and fought creeping despair. He could not seem to stop his mind from imagining a fast growing tumor spreading death throughout his body.

_A/N: The angst, unknowing continues-reviews appreciated! No one dies-fluff will return!_


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: Another chapter..._

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 19**

Days passed in a haze of trying to live a normal life while waiting for a verdict. Grissom cooked, worked on completion of his research, met Nick and Greg for breakfast while Sara and Catherine were working a convenience store shooting in Pahrump. The two men took great delight in telling him about their homicide case—quickly solved by evidence provided by the plumber.

"The husband claimed he came home and found his wife dead in the shower," Nick said. "Fingerprints in the bathroom matched up to the husband, the dead wife, and one other."

Greg was grinning from ear to ear, "The plumber—he had been in the house the day before—had quite a story. Big clog in the sewer line; he pulled out a dozen latex condoms, so thinking he would do the man a favor, he told the guy to throw away his used condoms—not flush them."

Nick was chuckling. "The only problem—the husband has been shooting blanks for four years!" He spread his hands as he continued to laugh. "The husband confessed—said he had just given his wife an expensive necklace for her birthday and he learns she has a lover! Poor guy—now he's going to jail for a long time!"

Grissom could laugh with these two—they had seen too much death and sorrow to miss humor when it accidently cracked a case. They asked about his future plans.

"Please don't take Sara away again," begged Greg.

"We'll stay—at least for awhile. I'm going to work on a spider project out in the western desert."

Nick cleared his throat. "Sara is really doing great—I—I know you worry about her, but she's—she's…" he stumbled for words.

"She's like old Sara—well, like Sara always was. I'm just happy to have her around again." Greg said with a wide smile.

The day of his ultrasound was another ordinary day—sunny and cloudless, the type of day tourists expected in Vegas. Sara and Grissom waited less than fifteen minutes before he was taken in for the ultrasound, which turned out to be similar to Sara's procedure that revealed two tiny fetuses. With only slight discomfort, the sonogram was completed and Grissom was dressed in less than twenty minutes.

"The doctor wants to see you—go over your husband's results," a nurse explained as she asked Sara to follow her through a maze of hallways and closed doors.

Sara thought it could not be good news if the doctor wanted to talk to both of them. The same physician, young, sincere, but very approachable, explained what had been found and recorded on screen.

"There are two abnormal areas," he said as he pointed to still images. "No enlargement at all but your second blood test remains high. I don't think it's an infection or caused by exercise."

Grissom's position changed; the words had knocked the wind out of him. Sara felt him crumple, nearly invisible to the eyes, but felt the change in the way his shoulders slumped, his chin dropped, and his fingers loosened in her hand.

"What do we do next?" Sara asked. For some reason, she had been prepared for this news.

"Biopsy is the next step." The young man was matter-of-fact as he explained the procedure, adding "You should get a second opinion, a third or fourth if you want. But the biopsy will tell us what we are dealing with."

Sara's hand gripped her husband's. "When can the biopsy be scheduled?"

"We can get it set up quickly." He clicked his keyboard a few times. "Day after tomorrow we could do it in the afternoon."

For the first time since the doctor had said "abnormal areas" Grissom stirred, responding to Sara's hold on his hand. "Doctor, I don't want to sound—disrespectful, but how many of these procedures have you done? Biopsy as well as this type of surgery."

The young doctor smiled, "You are not the first to ask, Dr. Grissom. In three years, I've performed over a thousand biopsies on prostates. When I came into this practice, they were performing surgeries the old way—opening up, using a scalpel. I came from a group in San Francisco where we had been using robotic surgery for three years." He went on to explain the history and current treatments in great detail.

Sara realized the man lived and breathed what he practiced and the longer he talked, the more she trusted his ability and record. He did not brag of his expertise, but described and clarified in terms they could understand. It was all very clinical, very structured, but no one mentioned the word "cancer".

At home, Grissom pushed food around his plate. "I know its cancer," he said. "I don't know what to do." He felt a mixture of anger and embarrassment, weakness and dependence, a strange numbness deep inside him he would never have expected.

Drawing a deep breath, Sara left her chair and walked around the table to Grissom. Her arms folded around his shoulders. She saw the shadows on his face marked by a brooding concentration, and a small shiver went through her. Softly, she cleared her throat.

"I've been thinking," she said.

His mouth curved in a wry grin. "Why am I not surprised?"

Sara went into clinical mode in the same manner she worked as a criminal investigator. She read and reread, she made phone calls and talked with several patients or their spouses willing to discuss their treatments until she understood every treatment, procedure, scores and numbers, and options. Her positive attitude gradually transferred to Grissom as they discussed what she had learned. As with her pregnancy, they decided, almost without discussion, they would keep the testing private for now.

The procedure for the biopsy followed a familiar pattern of the previous ultrasound with minor discomfort; the physician, giving directions to do nothing strenuous for several days, promised results in one week. And a few days later they were in another procedure room for Sara's amniocenteses.

Grissom held her hand as the physician guided the thin needle in place; they watched the screen as a tiny hand opened and closed. In seconds the needle was withdrawn and a second one was inserted into another area of Sara's lower belly. Grissom smiled as they watched a fetus wave an arm.

"Amazing," he whispered, more to himself than anyone in the room.

As the doctor withdrew the second needle, she said, "They look good," she moved the hand held transducer. "Let's look closer—do you want to know gender?"

At the same time, Sara and Grissom said "Yes!"

The doctor had already seen what she showed the couple. "You have a boy—see this." She pointed to the screen and smiled at Grissom. His smile broadened. She moved the transducer to the other baby and after several minutes said "This one is not cooperating with us—must be a shy boy or a modest girl!"

Sara smiled as Grissom beamed. "A boy, Sara—we'll have one of each, I know it!" For the first time in two weeks his voice echoed with enthusiasm.

The doctor advised bed rest for the rest of the day, no lifting for several days, and the possibility of cramping following the procedure. "Results in ten to twelve days but I expect nothing but good news," she said. "Any questions?"

Sara glanced at Grissom. She had one question; he had asked her the question as they left home, but now, he sat in silence. She asked, "When can we have sex?"

The physician started laughing, "You mean you two are still doing it after making twins? Good for you—get all you can now! But wait a couple of days, then go easy with each other for a week." She shook her head as she laughed. "You two have given me my laugh for the day." She patted Sara's belly. "And eat—you should be gaining more weight."

It seemed to Grissom that waiting was all they had done for weeks and now they waited to have sex. Sara was sleeping on the sofa with Hank at her feet and Heather stretched along the back; the cat's tail swept lazily between the dog's ears. Grissom chuckled; the cat seemed to be teasing the dog. He could not concentrate on anything in the house, so he reached for the leash and held it for the dog to see. An hour later, the two returned to find an empty couch except for the kitten curled where Sara's head had been.

Grissom heard the shower and walked into the bedroom. He realized he was not quite certain what to say or do. A few weeks ago, he would not hesitate at the door; he paused with his hand on the door knob. As long as he lived he would never forget how she had responded to all that had happened. He had known for years that she loved him, but in an instant, he realized how much she loved him—she had chosen him, trusted him long before he had returned her love. He smiled almost with relief. Whatever news came from his doctor, whatever the results of his biopsy or results from her amniocentesis, he knew she would be with him. And with that realization, he knew they would be together until one's eyes closed for the last time. He took a deep breath.

"Dear, sweet Sara," he whispered as he walked into the bathroom, catching Sara by surprise when he entered.

"Oh," she said as a shy smile crossed her face. She was standing in front of a long mirror, naked, her hand on her abdomen. She blushed. "I—I…"

Grissom grinned. "You look cute. And you're going to be beautiful with a round tummy."

Sara laughed softly and reached to frame his face between her hands. "Two days of rest and three for you—I think, if we are gently and slow, we could—you know," her head nodded toward the bedroom.

With a low exclamation, he wrapped arms around her and propelled both to the bed, never taking his lips from hers as he unbuttoned his shirt and she unhooked his pants. His tongue surged into her mouth in an act of passion that presaged the even more intimate one to follow.

"I will never be able to get enough of you," he whispered. He lowered his head to gently taste one nipple.

"I love you," Sara said against his ear.

Grissom heard himself make a tortured plea in a voice he hardly recognized, "Don't ever stop loving me—I could not bear it."

He toed his shoes off and pushed his pants to the floor. His hand came to the soft curls between her legs. She shivered. He could feel warmth and dampness just as he felt his own erection growing between them.

_A/N: Now you know, Grissom gets a little Napoleon or Pierre (or does Sara get a little Gilbert?) Read, enjoy (maybe?), leave a review, make a comment, and another chapter follows quickly..._


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: Time to review! Say you'll do it before you read this chapter! Then do it!_

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 20**

For weeks Sara had fought her own dark thoughts about pregnancy, childbirth, becoming a parent; Grissom's excitement was enough for both of them, she decided, as she continued to worry. Until the sonogram showed two small forms—two! The cloud lifted—for the first time in a very long time, Sara realized a miracle had occurred in her own body and, her confidence grew, especially when it was Grissom who fainted with the news. While she had not completely convinced herself of her parenting ability, she firmly believed her children would arrive healthy—which pushed away the wavering shadows of uncertainty.

Now, faced with the high probability of cancer—treatable, curable, but possibility life-altering—her renewed confidence grew as a stone wall around a castle. This cancer threatened her, her home, and most of all, her husband and lover; she became impenetrable. It would not take from her what she refused to give.

When Grissom had entered the bathroom, she had seen the uncertainty, the vulnerability on his face. She had read so much about this cancer; she knew what fueled his anxiety, and why it was so very difficult for him to voice. The risk of losing something that was so much a part of him, an amazing, enjoyable part of love, loomed and, to Grissom, as with most men, was beyond comprehension.

She closed her eyes as his hand covered her intimate folds, his fingers eased into her, touched the tender bud at her entrance. She felt his growing hardness against her inner thigh. He had taught her so much, given her love and pleasure in ways she had never imagined, showing her that loving someone was more than a single song on the radio. He had given her kindness, strength, and trust. She could not imagine life without him.

Her hand glided from his arm to his abdomen, and sought his swollen penis. Her fingers encircled him, her palm cupped him; he sucked in his breath.

"Sara," he rasped. Physically or mentally, he could not bear this intimate touch for long. He did not expect to hear Sara's whisper in his ear.

"This is a part of you, Gil. A part of you—not all of you," he knew she smiled by the tone of her voice. "I love all of you—all of you. We will always have this—this time, this wonderful, private closeness—do you understand what I'm saying? I love you with all my heart—I always will." Her lips met his as she rolled on top of him, parted her legs and, using her hand, slipped his erection into her opening. The feeling was one of such intense pleasure, she gasped as she pushed herself upright.

Grissom came with her, wrapping his legs behind her and tugging her legs around him so they were sitting face-to-face. He was speechless—a usual occurrence during this part of love-making—but more so because of her words. All he could think about was happening between his legs—every nerve ending in his body seemed to begin and end at his penis. And the wet, tight fitting center he desired was pulling, throbbing, and massaging his erection in a way that took all conscious thought from his brain.

Sara's hands softly stroked the contours of his back; his skin quivered as her fingertips grazed across his muscles. She clutched his shoulders as he gently pushed into her. When she lifted her hips, he surged into her.

"Wait, I don't want to hurt…" Grissom's face was a mask of self-imposed restraint as he pulled slightly away.

Sara's bent her face so their foreheads touched. She said, a mocking smile on her lips, "Perhaps we should stop."

"I could not stop now if the earth opened up and swallowed me alive." Grissom eased himself out of her—almost—and then pushed slowly back into her.

Breath stopped for both. Slowly, he began to move in and out of her, placing his hands on her butt. "Hold me tightly, Sara," he whispered as she twisted and contracted around him. She held on to him feeling the flood tide of passion as he kissed along her neck. She felt her body reach a critical point and whispered his name.

"Gil."

He kissed her again, this time on her mouth, parting her lips with his tongue. As her climax soared, her back arched and she would have fallen to the bed except his arms caught her. "Hold on, sweet Sara."

She was hardly aware of Grissom's jubilant groan as he pumped into her, his slow strokes becoming faster as her own body trembled, convulsed as tiny ripples became a whirlpool of ecstasy.

The low buzz of the phone rattling against the bedside table woke Sara. Grissom instinctively tightened his arm around her when she moved. She was cuddled between his arm and chest; his fingers cupped her very round breast.

"Gil?" She wiggled as his fingers played with her nipple. "The phone's ringing."

"I don't care," he mumbled as he kissed her neck beginning just below her ear.

Sara reached an arm in the phone's direction. "I'm on call tonight." His response was to groan as he rolled onto his back and pulled her across his chest. His fully erect shaft pressed against her thigh. She giggled as she grabbed the phone and checked the caller. It was not work. She left the phone on the table and turned her attention to her husband; they could return the call later…

"We have the results, the biopsy came back positive—you have prostate cancer." The young doctor, the same one they had seen before, had a great bedside manner, even in his office. He immediately explained what they needed to know to proceed, encouraging them to seek a second opinion, even a third or fourth.

Sara had taken Grissom's hand before the doctor entered the room; she kept one hand on his back and felt the deep breath of air he took as he heard the words. Their hands gripped as they listened to possible choices: waiting, radiation, chemotherapy, hormone therapy, radical prostatectomy. Then he outlined what he considered their best options—watchful waiting was not his recommendation. The physician gave them several websites for information—ones they had already found as reliable as they had researched.

"Dr. Grissom, I know you realize how serious this is, but having no symptoms—no problems—it will be easy to postpone a decision. Please don't. I will help you in obtaining additional opinions so you don't have to wait long between appointments. Your medical record can be forwarded ahead of any appointments." He looked at Sara. "I know this is a joint venture—just like pregnancy," he managed an appreciated smile. "I want you to think about the possibility of more children—any treatment interferes with fertility, but there are ways to father children."

The doctor was incredible, instilling confidence and trust as he talked. He was extremely positive as he discussed this highly "curable" cancer. Grissom asked question after question, and the physician answered each one—succinct answers at times, providing extensive details for others. At some point, the three pulled chairs together to study the sonogram details, biopsy slides, and treatments. Sara realized she was not the only one who was thinking in an objective, scientific mode.

Grissom immediately ruled out implanted radiation seeds because of Sara's pregnancy and the possible detrimental effects on a fetus and small children.

The physician asked, "Do you plan on having more children?"

Sara glanced at Grissom in the same instant he looked at her. Both laughed—for the first time in an hour. Sara spoke first, "I never thought I would have one—and now I'm having two."

Grissom nodded his head, "Two—we'll have two." He turned back to the doctor. "I want to survive, Doctor. I don't want my kids growing up without me. I want the cancer gone—but, for my peace of mind, we need a second opinion." He fumbled his hand into his pocket and brought out a folded paper. "We've made a list," he said as he passed it to the physician. "If your office could help us get an appointment with one of these."

The doctor scanned the list. "You've made a good decision—excellent list."

Nine hours later, Sara was at work listening to Nick and Greg banter about a dozen topics. Suddenly, an overwhelming sadness seemed to materialize deep inside her, tears burned her eyes. Quickly, she left the room and made it to the parking garage without meeting anyone. She leaned against a wall as she cried; she was so scared—all her courage, all her bravery and positive attitude was gone. The word "cancer" was frightening enough, but it took on a dreadful significance in a healthy man—the man she loved; reality sunk in for the coming weeks, for what they might lose, and for Grissom's future health. She checked her phone for the time—she hoped Grissom was asleep, but her fingers seemed to work on their own as she pressed speed dial.

He answered immediately, "Hey."

"I'm just checking," she whispered.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just needed to hear your voice."

"Sara—I'm fine. We're fine." She heard a soft laugh. "I am going to be around for a long time—healthy, for a long time. I want to see my son and daughter graduate from college."

She laughed. "Oh, we've having one of each?"

"Yeah," he chuckled. "I need one of each."

For the next few days, Sara worked and Grissom did what he had trained for years to do—he researched. He knew he had a limited time to make an informed decision on how to tackle his cancer and it gave him a semblance of control. Gradually, they resumed normal activities—they cooked, they watched movies, they walked the dog—but the gorilla of cancer remained in the room.

On the day an envelope arrived from Sara's physician, Grissom handed it to her. "Results," he said.

"You open it—I can't."

Grissom gathered her to his chest and opened the envelope behind her back. The one page with a short paragraph took three seconds for him to read. "Negative—all the results came back negative." As he read the paragraph out loud, a sense of relief embraced both, felt as breaths of air escaping from lungs.

"It's not one hundred percent," Sara said.

"But it rules out a lot," he grinned. "It's good news, Sara." He dropped the letter, took her face in his hands and kissed her. "I don't think I've told you lately how excited I am—I—most of my life I never thought about being a dad," he laughed. "But I think we will have a lot of fun—little Napoleon and little Claudette."

His names made Sara laugh. "The letter didn't tell the gender?"

"No, 'results will be explained at your next regular appointment'", he quoted the letter. "We're going to have two healthy babies—a girl and a boy." He grinned.

"I need to tell Catherine."

Since Grissom was the one with cancer, Sara decided he should decide who to tell, or if he would tell. She knew this was an extremely private matter for him. Years before, his hearing loss surgery had been kept secret from everyone but Doc Robbins and Catherine until it was over. She could not imagine him making a general announcement about prostate cancer. She was not surprised when, at the same time she decided to tell Catherine of her pregnancy, Grissom headed to see his friend in the morgue.

Sara waited for Catherine to push aside paperwork and remove her glasses. "What's up?" She asked.

Sara smiled, saying "I've got news to share."

"You're not leaving—Nick said Grissom told him you two were staying here for awhile. Grissom has a bug project, doesn't he? Do you want some time off? Take it—just don't tell me you are leaving—or you want to move to day shift! The girl I interviewed two weeks ago chose day shift—I hate when that happens. No one wants to work grave—and it's not bad, is it? We've had a lot of good cases, a lot of fun over the years." She paused to breathe, "Tell me your news."

Sara took a deep breath, uncertain of Catherine's reaction. "I'm pregnant."

Catherine's mouth opened, closed, and opened again. She sat back in her chair, a smile forming on her face. After a long moment of silence, she said, "A baby—Gil Grissom and Sara Sidle are having a baby." Her smile broadened. "A baby!"

At that moment, someone tapped on the office door. "Is this a good time?"

_A/N: Smut, angst, and Catherine speechless-in one chapter. Does it deserve a review? We want to hear from you-don't hate us for giving Grissom cancer!_


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: Thanks for reading! _

**Murder Without Guilt Chapter 21**

Catherine came out of her chair and around the desk in seconds. "Sara's just announced her news—look at you—pleased as a cat with a bowl of cream!" She hugged Grissom and he kept smiling.

To Sara, he mouthed "twins" and she shook her head.

Catherine was giddy, talking so fast that neither Sara nor Grissom could say anything. "We need to celebrate! Can I tell everyone? What's your due date? Oh, Sara, I hope you'll keep working—I'll keep you in the lab. Gil, how long has it been since we had a baby in the lab? Years, I'm sure. Remember the lab tech—oh, that's been at least ten years ago—she went into labor one night and everyone took her to the hospital. When we got back, you and Brass were the only ones here!" She turned to Sara and hugged her. "Look at you—how far along? Everything's okay—I haven't noticed you being sick—or maybe morning sickness happens after you leave?" She pulled away from Sara and quickly hugged her again. "I'm so happy! Do you want a girl or boy? It doesn't matter, does it? Just a healthy baby, right!"

Every time Sara tried to answer a question, Catherine asked another one without pausing. Grissom finally interrupted her. "We want to have a party—maybe dinner for everyone—and make an announcement. But Sara wanted to tell you first."

"I'm the first to know?" If possible, her smile broadened. "I'm first! Does that mean I get to be godmother too? Is it impolite to ask to be godmother? I don't care—I've known you two longer than anyone else, so I get to be godmother!" She made an excited shrug of her shoulders and giggled. "The clothes—oh, Sara, please find out if you're having a girl or boy—there are places selling exquisite baby clothes!"

Again, Sara tried to respond and failed. It was Grissom, laughing and shaking his head as he touched Catherine's shoulder, that quieted her. "Catherine—Catherine—we don't want everyone to know for another week or so. So can you pretend you don't know?"

Catherine asked, "How far along? I remember being exhausted for weeks with Lindsay—and I was young!" Her hand covered her mouth quickly before she added, "Every pregnant woman needs rest—lots of rest." She glanced at Grissom. "Do you understand that?"

When Sara stated her due date, Catherine's eyes widened with surprise. Sara quickly explained. "We wanted results of certain tests—which we have now. And," she drew out the word, "we are not revealing gender. We want a surprise—we don't get many surprises in life."

Grissom's arm went around Sara. "Isn't she amazing?" Sara breathed with relief as she realized Catherine had forgotten most of the questions she had rattled off. She was asking Grissom about his research project and a few minutes later, she left to find Nick and Greg.

Sara kissed Grissom as he prepared to leave. He said, "Doc Robbins says the guy we're seeing is a real stud with this robotic surgery—that's medical jargon for 'knows what he's doing'—and he is going to make a few calls."

Sara sensed some of the stress had lifted from Grissom. She said, "Did you tell him about—about me?"

"He had already guessed—heard you in a bathroom one morning and decided only one thing was likely to make you queasy." He kissed her cheek. "Nothing wrong with his hearing or his perception—and he'll keep secrets for both of us."

Both doctors had agreed, without collaboration, of the need for a second opinion. And in the way that one physician knows of another or knows a friend who has a network of associates, Grissom received a phone call from a doctor in San Francisco whose practice was associated with one of the top five prostate treatment centers in the country. And in a week, they had an appointment at one of the most successful clinics in the world.

San Francisco had always been a favorite place, both remembering details of the time they met and wandered the streets as tourist and guide. "I knew I loved you that day," Sara laughed as they climbed the street to Coit Tower. She had refused the offer of a taxi. "We should walk—like we did the first time!"

Grissom remembered the first time he had tried to keep up with this long-legged brunette and it had not been easy, but today they lingered at street corners with scenic views, watched parrots fly from trees, and stopped to follow their noses to a small bakery where they purchased two hot-from-the oven muffins. They had gotten to the city as most commuters headed to work, checked into their hotel, and eaten breakfast as the city came to life. Their appointment was late afternoon and both seemed determined to enjoy the day.

They walked around the base of the tower and read the titles of books painted in one mural and admired the muscles of farmers in another. They pretended it was easy to laugh, easy to be distracted from the reason they were in the city. At the top of the tower they had another tourist take their photograph with the famous bridge in the background—instead of taking one, the young man encouraged them to laugh and pressed several times in rapid succession. Descending the hill, they used steps that dropped steeply passed cottages and gardens tucked and clinging to the hillside. It was a longer walk, but much easier, to return to the hotel along the bay and Sara managed to eat as she walked. She ate a sweet caramel tamale from a small Mexican food cart, a Buddha bun from a Chinese café, and selected six pieces of exquisite chocolate candies in a candy store.

Grissom laughed as he paid for the chocolates hoping the food would add weight to her slim frame.

Their meeting with the well-known doctor confirmed what they already knew—Gleason score, grading, biopsy results. He reviewed the ultrasound and showed an additional area of concern. This doctor said "there is a thirty percent chance the cancer has spread outside the margins of the prostate."

Hearing his words was a sucker punch, and an unexpected blow that added to the extreme pressure to make a decision quickly. After the appointment, they tried to eat dinner at one of the organic vegetarian restaurants near the hotel, but ended up pushing more food around the plates than they ate. An hour later they were back in their hotel room, exhausted from what they had heard, stretched across the wide bed in a room with a beautiful view they could not enjoy.

"I've got to get the cancer out, Sara. More than anything, I want to be around to see our kids grow up." Grissom voice hesitated for several seconds before continuing, "We can't keep reading, putting off this decision." He reached an arm around and tucked her between his arm and chest. "I like the doctor in Vegas—I believe he will do the best that can be done. If—if this has spread, then we will be at home where we have friends—the family we've made. We won't have to travel back and forth." He kissed the top of her head. "I'm going to have robotic surgery—and deal with other possible outcomes afterwards."

Sara turned her face to his, kissing his chin before he tucked his head to reach her lips. "We'll deal with it," she whispered. Sara realized a second opinion had added to their knowledge and confidence in the specialist in Vegas; she knew Grissom needed to be comfortable with the person who would be performing an extremely delicate, life-saving procedure.

They drifted to sleep, still wearing their clothes, lying on top of the covers. Which is why Sara woke up in the middle of the night—Grissom, mostly asleep, was struggling with the duvet, tangling in the sheet, and grumbling. She managed to unbuckle his belt and pulled his pants off before he was awake enough talk.

"We went to sleep in our clothes," he said, stating what was obvious, as Sara reached to pull his shirt over his head.

Sara returned from the bathroom to find he had quickly returned to sleep, snuggled underneath covers in the middle of the bed. She crawled into the bed and burrowed next to his warm body, nuzzling her face against his soft tee-shirt. She didn't return to sleep for a while; she had been hesitant to give her thoughts on this cancer to Grissom as it had to be his decision. But tonight, she felt he had made the right decision. If the cancer had spread, he would have additional treatment options. One statement from the expert remained in her mind—Grissom had excellent blood flow, his arteries were those of a healthy forty year old which lessened his chances for incontinence and erectile dysfunction. This doctor had also encouraged the banking of sperm when he learned Sara was pregnant.

"It will give an option for more children," he advised. He had also asked about frequency, duration, and rigidity of Grissom's erections which had brought an unexpected laugh from both.

Sara had answered: "Good—really good. Always when he wakes up," she glanced at Grissom who remained silent, waiting for her description. "Full salute," she moved her hand upward. At that, Grissom had chuckled. The doctor smiled, nodding, "That's a good sign" he said.

With those thoughts, Sara brought her hand to Grissom's chest and placed it above his heart. She kissed his jaw below his ear and took a deep breath. She loved the smell and taste of him, the feel of his skin against hers. He shifted slightly and she slipped her knee between his legs, and, in his sleep, his arm wrapped around her.

The next morning, Grissom called the young physician in Vegas and scheduled an appointment.

Two days later, they invited the grave-shift team to dinner. They would make an announcement, they decided, telling everyone of the pregnancy, but not of twins, and, perhaps, Grissom said, he would reveal his cancer. Sara would let him decide who to tell—he had always been so private about his personal life.

As they prepared lasagna and several salads for dinner—they had decided to invite Nick, Greg, Catherine, and Jim an hour earlier than everyone else—Grissom said, "I'm going to tell them I'm having surgery. The others can find out later, but for now, they need to know—you know, in case you have to miss." He stopped what he was doing. "I don't know, Sara. For the first time in my life, I'm…"

"Gil," Sara said, softly, "I'm taking off whatever time is needed—not on call, off. This is our priority right now—you are my priority."

He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. "It should be the other way around, you know—you," he smiled. "Having twins—we'll be fine." She leaned to his face and kissed him. He grinned, saying "Don't start anything we don't have time to finish!"

Sara giggled. "We want to keep your blood flowing." She kissed him again—and the doorbell rang. She pulled away. "Company's here!"

Their four long-time friends did not just walk into a room—their laughing chatter filled the house, their teasing banter rolling from one to another with an ease known to people who were more than friends but had a deep love for each other. Grissom did not have to ask who wanted a drink; he handed each person what they liked as they were greeting each other. Surprised to find others had not arrived, and saying so, Grissom quickly revealed the reason.

"We have a couple of things to tell all of you—first." He wrapped an arm around Sara and grinned. "Sara's pregnant," he announced.

Sara was amazed at the noise level as the three men shouted, laughed, slapped Grissom on the back and hugged her offering congratulations and other words of wishes. They quieted when Grissom held a hand up.

"We'll need your friendship and your support for what's going to happen in a few months," he said. "But before then, I'm having surgery and Sara's going to need your help for a few days while I recover."

Everyone's excitement calmed as worried frowns replaced smiles.

"I have cancer."

_A/N: Thanks for reading-reviews appreciated, special thanks to you who always do! And some sweet stuff coming up now that we know Grissom's decision!_


	22. Chapter 22

_Enjoy! _

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 22**

Sara would later think they had all been so gentle. Nick, his face as easy to read as a page in a book, had been surprised, then shocked as the meaning of Grissom's words registered in his brain. Greg had made a sound before dropping his mouth open. Brass had wiped a hand across his face before turning to face the window. And Catherine—bewildered, stunned, and frightened—had been the first to respond. She had moved to Grissom's side, saying his name as her hand came to rest on his arm.

They had gathered around—Jim had walked to Sara, put his arm around her shoulders and before anyone spoke, Sara realized how very tired she was. For a moment, she did not have to pretend everything was fine. Jim seemed to notice the slight quiver of her chin as his hand tightened on her shoulder.

Grissom said, "It's prostate cancer—it does not appear to have spread—and I'm scheduled for surgery next week." When he drew a deep breathe, Sara recognized the same tiredness in his voice.

"Ahhh, man!" Nick groaned.

Catherine's hand moved along Grissom's arm and Greg handed a cold glass to Sara and another to Grissom. Sara realized he had managed to fill two glasses with water before anyone else had said anything.

"We wanted you to know what's going on," Grissom explained.

No one registered surprise when Grissom explained his diagnosis, treatment options, the second opinion in very clinical terms—he was back on a case giving facts, conclusions, and opinions about his decision. Everyone nodded in agreement when he said "I need to get this cancer out."

He added, grinning, "I want to live a long time." His arm circled Sara's waist. "This afternoon we are celebrating—not talking about cancer. Who would have imagined when we went to Paris we would return with our own little Napoleon and Josephine!" His hand flew to his mouth; he stopped so abruptly that everyone's mouth dropped, and Grissom's face flushed. He stammered "Napoleon or Josephine."

Catherine knew the meaning of his reddened face and his stumble to cover his words was not lost on anyone. "You're having twins!" She cried.

Grissom's eyes met Sara's and in an instant he saw golden flames in her dark eyes. In a blink, she was laughing, her eyes softened, and she leaned to kiss him.

She said, "As we are revealing everything—yes, we are having twins—and, no, we will not know gender until their birthday." Her fist soft-punched Grissom's shoulder.

Excited exclamations, congratulations, and well wishes began again and continued as others arrived and learned of Sara's pregnancy. And, as if some silent agreement had been reached, none who knew mentioned twins or Grissom's cancer. A shared knowledge of this couple's desire for privacy meant support, not exposure or public announcements. All of them knew Grissom should be the one to tell of his cancer, and instinctively, they knew who in the lab would provide unwanted and unsolicited advice.

And this party was about celebrating.

As hors d'oeuvres of breads and cheeses, platters of tomatoes and marinated vegetables, bowls of nuts and dried fruits were eaten, Sara heard snippets of conversations that included baby name suggestions, 'must have' supplies and equipment. She snickered as she realized all this advice came from people who had little experience with babies. When she heard Doc Robbins comparison of dogs and children, she asked:

"What is it that causes people to compare dogs and children?"

Several women protested, but Doc explained, "You train both! Dogs have to recognize the leader of the pack; children—same way!" He pointed to Hank who was curled on his bed in the kitchen. "Look at Sara's dog—well behaved, knows how to greet people, doesn't demand excessive attention. Sara will be a great mom!"

From across the room, Grissom groaned, saying, "We need a bigger bed."

As the date for surgery approached, Grissom seemed to have an appointment every day—blood tests, a bone scan, the procedure for sperm banking, even a tour of the robotic operating room. Sara went with him—except to the sperm bank and he insisted he needed no assistance with that appointment.

Sara worked two nights giving Nick and Greg time off and then both met her at crime scenes saying they had nothing else to do. Neither fooled her but she accepted their help with thanks.

Doc Robbins came to the layout room one morning to tell her, "I'll be at the hospital with you." When she protested, he quieted her with a wave of his hand. "It's the least I can do, Sara."

Catherine walked with her to the parking deck on her last day of work before Grissom's surgery. Sara had asked for two weeks of leave and Catherine had added two additional days "to give you two some fun time before the surgery" she said. Catherine reached into her car and placed a large bag in Sara's hands.

She said, "This is for fun time—give Grissom something to dream about during surgery!" Seeing the expression on Sara's face, Catherine laughed. "Oh, I know you are not a prude! You've got that old guy cranked up in ways he never imagined!"

Sara laughed. Knowing Catherine, she had an idea of what was in the box. "Thanks, Catherine."

The contents were exactly what she thought—even more—as she pulled out a cherry red sheer nightie, candles, lotion, and a very tiny pair of panties in the same color. In the bottom of the box was a pair of high heeled red shoes—the kind with a fluffy puff ball across the toe.

"Oh, Catherine!" The two women laughed as Sara held a shoe between her fingers.

At home, Sara sent Grissom and Hank on a walk.

"Go with us!"

Sara waved, "Nope—got something else to do. Walk him to the park so he'll take a good nap. I'll shower while you're gone." The sound of her voice, low, warm and intriguingly sensual, got man and dog out the door in record time. And their return was just as swift—Sara had barely enough time to towel her hair to dampness and lace the satin ribbon of Catherine's gift through the loops down the front. Light laughter came as she turned in front of the mirror thinking only Catherine would buy a pregnant woman such an item.

She heard rumblings of Grissom's return as he talked to the dog and cat. Quickly, giving her hair a quick stroke trying to tame it, she leaned against the doorway and waited. The blinds were closed and the candles made small puddles of light where she had placed them around the darkened bedroom. Several minutes passed as she waited remembering why she did not wear high heels, but she wasn't going to remove one until Grissom got the full effect of her red ensemble.

When she had almost given up, he walked in and closed the door before noticing her. In his hands he carried a clear glass half-filled with an amber liquid which he sat down very gently. He crossed the room in three long strides, halted in front of her, trapped her against the door, and captured her face in his hands. As his face came to hers, Sara noticed the sea blue current in his eyes—at once loving and fiery.

In between damp, heated, hungry kisses, they left the doorway and Sara managed to yank off much of his clothing. Jacket, shirt, shoes, and pants made a trail across the floor. The sheer red gown was simply pushed upward when Grissom's hand traced the shape of her body, gliding possessively down her back to her waist and over the growing swell of her belly.

"I like this," he said, his voice a mesmeric cadence of longing. One finger found the edge of the panties. His palm glided under the silky fabric triangle, and taking his time, his fingers stroked, gently, until she was wet and twisting against his hand. Simultaneously, their lips met as he slipped a finger into her feminine core at the same time his tongue took possession of her mouth.

Sara attempted to control the passionate tension building inside her yet the aching sensation between her legs wanted more. She lifted her hips as rippling muscles swept through her. Quickly, Grissom guided himself and tenderly pushed until he was buried deep within her.

"Yes," she whispered as he drove himself, slowly, with long hard thrusts, inside her. His hands moved to her butt as he built a rhythm, holding her to him as he moved. A moment later her climax shattered all thoughts from her mind and the contractions of her muscles pulled Grissom over the edge with her. Sara sensed that, for a few timeless seconds, they were fused together as one. The sensation was so exquisitely intimate, so incredibly strong, that Sara's body convulsed one last time before going limp.

Some time later, she smoothed the wrinkled fabric of her nightie as Grissom played with the satin ribbon. He had guessed correctly who was responsible for the outfit after he had collapsed on top of his wife and found his penis ensnarled in the threads of what was left of the panties. He loosened the ribbon and kissed the space between her breasts.

He said, "This should be useful for months to come." He smiled with a salacious look on his face. Sara looked confused. "It expands," he pulled the fabric away from her body, "as you grow." Sara laughed as he relaxed, enjoying the sight and sensation of having her so close to him.

"I'll look like a big red balloon in a few months," she said.

"You know you make me whole, Sara," he whispered. "I enjoy being alive just to be in the same room with you." His hands closed around her shoulders as she turned toward him and wrapped her arms around him.

For days, she had tried to have only positive thoughts but the intimacy of his words came as a tidal wave that threatened to consume her. A quick sob welled up out of nowhere, taking her completely by surprise and in a moment she was crying like a waterfall. Her brain tried to tell her "stop—think positive" but it was useless. She buried her face against Grissom's chest and wept. She cried for the father she had lost so long ago that she no longer remembered his voice; for her mother who had vanished into a nightmare of mental illness; for the life she loved and the man who loved her. Most of all she cried for what might happen in the near future. She cried until she was exhausted, until there were no more tears, and she felt Grissom kissing the top of her head.

"I'm sorry," she said. "About everything."

Gently, he tipped her chin up and kissed her. "I'm not. Making love with you is the most astonishingly wonderful thing that I have ever done in my life—every time." He kissed her again. "If I—if this surgery doesn't go as planned and I—I—promise me you will never forget how much I love you." His hands pulled her tightly to his chest. "I will love you all the days of my life and beyond, Sara Sidle. Do you understand?" His fingers laced through her hair with such intimacy and understanding it erased the creeping melancholy edging around her thoughts.

Sara drew a deep breath; working for positive thoughts returned. Her fingers touched Grissom's face. "We are going to be fine," she said.

He brought her closer and kissed her. "Yes, we will." She felt his lips form a smile. "We may need a bigger bed."

Sara snuggled against his shoulder. "Let's get Napoleon and Josephine a bed of their own."

_A/N: Thanks for reading! We were asked why we chose this cancer for Grissom-personal experience with a very loved man who was successfully treated and is now 'cancer-free' without dreaded side effects, and-men do not talk about this cancer! Women need to-and get the men they love tested, learn about the fantastic latest treatments. Everyone knows about pink ribbons, but how many of us know the 'color' for prostate cancer? It is the 2nd most common cancer in men and too many die because they are afraid of testing and treatment. _


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: **_Enjoy!_

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 23**

For two days they pushed thoughts of cancer and surgery away and did things for enjoyment—a drive to Lake Mead, watched a favorite movie, a walk along a trail at Red Rocks. Grissom drove to the isolated area where he would be working on spider research and, as they walked through low growing scrubs, he pointed to feathery tracks in the sandy soil.

"He's defending his territory—or in search of a mate," he said as he side-stepped over an almost invisible trail. Sara followed, her expression clearly showing her feelings.

"Ah—here he is!" Grissom lifted a thorny branch of a bush to reveal a very large and hairy tarantula. The excitement in his voice was enough to get Sara to look at his discovery. "I wish I had tagging gear—he's young." He looked around trying to establish his location. He felt in his pockets, finding nothing, he said "I want to mark this spot for later."

Sara laughed. "I'm not giving up my shirt or my underwear."

"If I had those red ones I could find this place by smell," he chuckled and ducked as Sara's hand swiped at his head. Quickly, he added, "That's a good scent—I love it!" His eyebrow arched as he looked upward and grinned. "One I would know any where."

He grunted as he stood; she extended her hand to help.

"You enjoy this."

"I do—even more with you." When she started to protest, he said "You could take notes—never have to hunt or touch one."

She grinned. "Maybe—after Napoleon and Josey arrive. We'll figure out something." She agreed to his hopes, keeping him excited and talking about the future, but she knew she wasn't searching in the desert for creepy spiders. She would rather search for another shredded human.

Later, he talked her into going to one of the massive mega-baby stores. Sara hated shopping at these places, but as a diversion, she agreed. It was so overwhelming they were stunned into silence. Shelves filled to the ceiling with items they never knew existed—swings, gates, locks, monitors, carriers, bottles, cups, tubs, warmers for everything. Aisle after aisle they walked, picked up a dozen strange things before moving on.

Grissom halted at rows of car seats. "I never realized there were so many!"

"We'll need a car seat," Sara said.

"Two."

"Yeah—two."

They stood in silence for several minutes before a giggle floated from Sara. She said, "Two—of everything."

Another minute passed before Grissom laughed. "Maybe we don't need everything," his eyes rolled upward; his head turned side-to-side. "We'll turn the office into a nursery—keep them close to us."

Sara slipped her hand around his arm. "Those Costa Rican mothers did not have all this stuff and their babies were healthy and happy."

"You're right. We each need a sling-thingee."

"And lots of diapers."

That night they ate their last meal before "sacrificing the jewels" as Grissom described his surgery. To which Sara retorted "but we are keeping the castle safe." The next day, he fasted to prepare for surgery. Late in the day he said the dog food even smelled good.

"You can't eat it either" said Sara and in an attempt to divert his thoughts from food, she unfolded her list of names. Stretching beside him, she read a name, added Grissom to it, added a middle name, switched the order of names, tried out initials. "I don't want to give a kid a three letter bad word with initials," she explained.

Grissom responded by mentioning a food association with each name. "Anna will hate artichokes." "Babies love bananas—I do too." "Cakes, candy, croissants, and cookies—I want a cookie." His hand was resting on Sara's abdomen when he felt an odd movement, a flutter against his palm.

He sat up. "Sara, what's that? Is that—is it what I think?"

Her hand covered his; she smiled. "I think it is—not sure what it's supposed to feel like. I noticed it last week—several times. But it could be gas," she warned.

"No—it's not—that's a baby—or babies. In old days 'quickening'—isn't that something! How do you feel?" His hand made light circles across her stomach. "We've made two for us, Sara—it's a miracle." A soft laugh formed. "Where's that list of names? Do I get a vote?"

Sara passed the list to him. He placed his head against her chest; her hand played in his hair. He said, "I never liked Gilbert—unless you say it in that sexy voice. That was my mother's family name and I had to fight several times to be called Gil." His fingers traced her list. "My dad's middle name was Lewis."

"What was your dad's full name?"

"William Lewis—everyone called him Bill."

"WLG—good initials. Will—we can call him Will."

He chuckled. "Not very French—unless we name him Guillaume."

"What if we have two boys?"

Grissom thought a few minutes, "Will and Liam—but we're having one of each—I know it."

Sara's fingers combed his hair, long enough for a curl to wrap around her finger. The kitten bounced onto the bed looking to play, latching onto Grissom's sock and tugging at his wiggling toes.

"We could name a girl Hea…" Grissom glanced at Sara and closed his mouth; a sheepish smile formed on his face.

"Not from this womb," his wife warned him.

The day of the surgery, the usual bright dawn of Nevada was hidden by low, dark rain clouds. Neither Sara nor Grissom mentioned surgery or cancer as they fed the dog and cat, showered, and packed a small bag for an overnight stay; Greg would come later to check on both animals.

Grissom was immediately admitted as a patient, prepared for surgery, and left to dress in the usual hospital gown. They shared a laugh as Sara tied it in several places down his back but his bottom was left open. Each time a new person came in, they verified his name, date of birth and procedure. Sara stayed beside his as he was taken to the surgery floor where a dozen nurses and surgical assistants introduced themselves.

Finally, it was time for Grissom to be rolled into the operating room. Sara held back tears as she thought of possible outcomes of this surgery—the pathology report would take five days, it would be more days before the outcome of other functions were known. Sara found the waiting room where several other families were already waiting; she wanted her own corner, and turning away from a large family, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"We've got a place over here," Catherine said as she guided Sara to a quiet corner. Nick and Greg stood and hugged her; Doc Robbins patted the seat next to him.

"Sit here, dear. I brought a decaf coffee for you," he said as he handed her a familiar cup. "And two pastries."

Sara sniffed and wiped her eyes with her fingers.

"Now don't cry on me," Nick sweetly complained. He moved a chair, sat down and motioned for her to place her feet on his thigh. "My sisters always wanted their feet up when they were pregnant—are you doing that too?" When she shook her head, he smiled. "I'll tell Grissom he is falling down on the job of taking care of his wife. Put your feet up here."

Catherine took the chair next to her and passed coffee cups to the others. An hour crept by before nurses began to appear to whisper words to others in the waiting area. Finally, one announced "Grissom family" from the doorway; Catherine raised a hand. The nurse's report was: "He's doing fine—I'll return in another hour."

When Sara said, "She comes out here to tell everyone that—probably doesn't even work in surgery" everyone laughed. Greg left to walk Hank and by the time he returned, the same nurse had arrived with the same message. Brass stopped in for a few minutes, promising to return later. The nurse, returning the third time, waved for Sara to come with her—Grissom was in recovery and the physician wanted to talk with her.

Doc Robbins got up, "I'll go with you." His words were taken as orders for the others to remain behind, which they did.

Sara heard his voice before she saw him—slurred words and a laugh. She glanced at Doc Robbins who whispered "Anesthesia," and stopped when the nurse ahead of them pulled back a curtain. He would not pry on the private moments of greeting between husband and wife.

Two nurses were quietly laughing when Sara reached the bedside; there were tubes and wires running from underneath a smooth sheet, machines whined and hummed, and, quite distinctly, Grissom was complaining about needing to pee.

One of the nurses said, "Go ahead—you have a catheter and you don't even have to get out of bed." She looked at Sara. "You have a visitor," she said as she backed away from the bedside. "The doctor will be here in a few minutes, then we'll move your husband to a private room."

Sara nodded. "Hey," she whispered as she touched Grissom's face—the only place not covered by the sheet and free of IV needles, cuffs, and clips. Her hand slipped into his hair as she leaned to kiss him. "You look cute."

He grinned. "Am I waking up or going to sleep?" His voice was hoarse and dry.

The nurse handed Sara a cup of ice chips, whispering, "Some of these will help—just a little for now."

Sara placed a spoon to his mouth. "Cold," he frowned. "Add some scotch—help me get up. I need to pee."

The swish of the privacy curtain caused heads to turn as the doctor arrived. Sara waved for Doc Robbins to join them as Grissom asked again if he could get up. The physician's initial report was positive—everything had proceeded as smoothly as possible, but it would be several days before he would have final results. His preliminary belief was the cancer had not spread and Grissom's recovery should go well. He asked several simple questions of Grissom and got appropriate responses.

"He's ready for a real room," the physician said, signing several forms as the nurses checked and passed information to him. "I'll be in later today—he's sleepy, still coming out of the anesthesia." He shook Sara's hand, turned to Doc Robbins and said a few words before leaving.

Sara stayed at his bedside once he was in a room; the others left only after she promised to call Catherine with progress reports—except for Doc Robbins. He settled into a chair with a sigh. "I'm staying a while longer to keep Sara company."

_A/N: Appreciate the reviews-keep them coming. And we'll get the next chapter to you quickly..._


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: A chapter that answers some questions-so please write a review! Even if you've never done so before! _

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 24**

Over several hours, Grissom woke, talked and tried to joke, dosed, and woke again. He had pain meds and another drip going in his system that made him drowsy and each time he woke, Sara had to remind him that he had just had surgery. When the doctor came in, Sara got her first look at the visible outcome of the surgery; it appeared he had been in a knife fight. Six dime-size slits had been made in Grissom's torso for the procedure. A drainage tube was in place as well as the urinary catheter.

The physician indicated the catheter. "This one stays in for a week—maybe longer. The other one I'll remove before he leaves tomorrow. Nothing but ice or a sip of water every hour or so."

All through the afternoon and night, Sara sat beside Grissom's bed as nurses came in to take his vital signs, check his IV and give more pain meds and antibiotics. Sara gave him ice chips, massaged his shoulders, and adjusted his socks. Every time he woke up, he complained and asked to go to the bathroom; Sara and Doc managed to hide smiles at Grissom's persistence. Finally, Doc Robbins printed the words "Just pee in bed" on a paper and held it up for Grissom to read. The sign worked—through the haze of anesthesia, Grissom seemed to get the joke—and he relaxed and went back to sleep. Doc Robbins left for food and returned with several energy bars, a banana, cookies and a milkshake for Sara.

"I didn't want to get smelly food," he said with a grin. "Awful thing to wake up and smell a hamburger when you can't eat."

As promised, Sara called Catherine several times, but Doc Robbins refused to leave, saying he would stay all night. But when Greg showed up after midnight, Doc Robbins left for work. Several bodies, Greg reported as he took the vacated chair, had overwhelmed Dave and, he said with a grin, "I got the right number for once which means I get to sit with you!"

Sara considered Greg to be her best friend. Since her return to Vegas they had grown into another stage of friendship—Sara thought of it as understanding. He rarely questioned her about her personal life yet they shared so much; sitting together at Grissom's bedside they could talk about a dozen things or simply sit in silence. When Grissom moaned, Greg moved quickly to help Sara adjust the bed or to get more ice or to find someone to help when an alarm sounded on one of the machines attached to Grissom.

"You would make a good nurse," Sara complimented him after he had helped a young nurse as she changed out the IV.

"She was kinda cute, don't you think?" He said with a mischievous grin.

Nick and Brass showed up before dawn, both offering to stay then insisting that Sara try to sleep in the room's recliner. She was somewhat reluctant to leave Grissom, but all three men insisted, pointing out that Grissom was almost snoring and promising to wake her as soon as he moved. Minutes after stuffing a pillow against her neck and shoulder, Sara was asleep wrapped in a hospital blanket Greg had brought into the room.

In a dream, Sara heard voices and laughter and suddenly knew she was awake; the mumbling words came from Jim and the laughter—she knew it was coming from three men—including a puny chuckle belonging to Grissom. She pushed the blanket away from her face; sunlight streaming into the room blinded her for a few seconds. She squinted her eyes, blinking rapidly before she could see Nick and Greg leaning against a wall and Brass standing next to the bed, which had been raised so Grissom was almost sitting up. And he was awake; Jim was holding a cup.

She must have made a noise because all four men looked in her direction.

"Hey, sleepy head. Look who decided to wake up," Brass said. Still in a sleep fog, Sara wasn't sure if he meant Grissom or her, but she unwrapped herself and managed to take the few steps to the bed.

Quickly, she realized the machines were off, no wires were hooked to Grissom's chest, needles and tubes absent from his arms. She smiled, asking "How are you?" as she took his hand.

"I'm good—maybe not so good, but better," he said. "Not sure I remember much of yesterday. But I am ready to run these guys off."

Nick said, "You needed to sleep, Sara. Once Grissom woke up, the nurse came in and unhooked everything," he pointed to Grissom. "He insisted we let you sleep."

"We'll stay if you need us," Greg said.

Sara was relieved to see Grissom awake and talking coherently. She said, "I did need some sleep. Thanks," she hugged Brass because he was nearest. "Go home—get some rest. We'll be fine."

They had been told most patients left the hospital after twenty-four hours, but Sara found it hard to believe it would happen—except Grissom seemed to think he was ready to go, even with the dreaded catheter. When breakfast arrived—consumẻ and tea—he took two sips of tea before a physician's assistant came in with discharge instructions. The first thing he said was, "Thank your cardiologist for saving your life. This type of cancer is a young man's cancer—it's a killer when not caught early."

The written instructions for home-care were extensive, including orders for prescription medications, directions for catheter care and fluid requirements. "The more liquids you can drink the faster you will heal—don't overdo—but keep a beverage in your hand when you are awake. In ten days, maybe less, you can remove the catheter at home." He explained how to do that, what each prescription was for, and provided an appointment date in seven days as well as telephone numbers should an emergency occur.

Before noon, Grissom was wheeled to the exit and, once home, very slowly, he struggled to make his way into the house and bedroom. He almost fell into bed, saying "I'm exhausted—I can't believe I'm so tired." His face showed pain and he moved like a frail ninety year old man instead of one who, just a few days before, had been traipsing in the desert looking for spiders. Sara bit her lip, managed to keep a smile on her face, but it was heartbreaking to see her husband, usually so healthy and fit, full of life, appearing so helpless and weak.

Grissom did not object as Sara removed his shirt and replaced it with a fresh one; his torso was covered in stitches, bruises and bandages and he complained about the catheter which, he finally admitted, was actually causing little pain. Sara gently removed his pants and redressed him after she had applied lotion to his legs and backside.

"Your butt looks fine—no stitches, no bruises," she laughed as she helped him roll to his side and snapped his boxers. She plumped pillows, arranged covers, and combed his hair. "You look cute—and you need to be drinking fluids," she said as she left for the kitchen. A few minutes later she brought him a glass of juice and found him asleep just as she had left him.

The following days rolled into one of caring for her husband—meds, showers, food, laundry, keeping a beverage in Grissom's hand, and helping him move around the house filled every hour. Their friends brought food; at first Catherine and Brass brought bowls of noodles, potato soup, cookies, fruits. They realized Grissom's appetite was almost non-existent and the food was for Sara. Greg insisted he would take care of Hank and Heather. He slipped into the house almost unnoticed, took Hank for long walks, played with the kitten, and returned hours later to do it all again.

Late in the week, Grissom had progressed from bed to living room; he moved cautiously but had regained his appetite enough to eat what friends brought and anything Sara prepared. One week after surgery, his doctor showed the pathology report to them with a smile.

"Contained—no cancer cells outside the prostate—clear margins," he announced. "We'll check your blood for a year, but it looks like you are cancer free. And," he added, "if you haven't thanked your cardiologist, do so. We need more physicians like him." He gave instructions for removal of the catheter in the shower at home and handed Grissom an envelope of pills. "Take one of these every five days—there is no study to show this helps with recovery, but they do increase blood flow to the penis." He glanced at Sara. "Wait at least a month to have intercourse, but you can do anything else." He chuckled, "Within reason that is. Take walks, stay in bed longer, shower together, touching is important. Do anything you want to do to increase blood flow and bring memory back for those bruised nerves."

Grissom's mood lifted with every mile driven away from the physician's office. "Now if my plumbing works," he sighed.

"It will—it may take time, but we have time," Sara assured him. She had read so much about the surgery and recovery, and while hoping for the best outcome, she knew many men went months and years before regaining strength and bodily functions. She had bathed him, massaged him, hugged and curled against his weak body all week. And he had responded by holding her tightly as they slept, gently caressing her as she woke, and tenderly kissing her as she did things for him, but neither mentioned their unspoken fear of the future.

The second week following surgery, his appetite returned, and with it, he strengthened. After walking Hank twice with Sara and Greg along, he suggested they could remain at the house next time. They laughed and quietly arranged for one of them to walk Grissom and Hank instead of both. Nick arrived at noon one day, picked up Grissom and the two ate lunch at a favorite diner. Sara took a much needed nap and woke to find her head against Grissom's shoulder; he smelled faintly of fried potatoes and hamburgers.

As she dressed for work after two weeks of leave, Sara tried four shirts before finding one roomy enough to hide the growing bulge of her belly. Grissom watched from the bed as she threw one shirt after another into a heap. As she bent over and exposed her blue panties, unexpectedly, because the first blue pill he had taken had done nothing, he felt a familiar tingling in his groin. He lifted the sheet, checking himself, and grinned.

"Look at this," he said with a chuckle. "The drawbridge is beginning to lift." As Sara walked in his direction, her shirt revealing bare skin from her belly to her neck, for the first time in days, Grissom felt desire—real sexual passion—that a man has for a woman he loves. His grin broadened. "It's those panties!" he said and Sara knew from the sound of his laugh that he was healing. While he did not have a 'full salute' erection, it was clearly a half salute and a new stage of recovery.

Sara forgot dressing for work; she would be late. After all, she thought, everyone knew her husband was recovering from surgery. She flashed her hip at him. "It's time to play," she giggled and shed her shirt as she crawled back in bed. "We play gently," she warned. "A test," she suggested. "Above the waist—you are still recovering."

Grissom's mouth came down on hers, moist, hot, flaring with sudden sensual energy. He rolled to trap her with his leg across her thighs, her head in the crook of his arm, and kissed her again. His fingers unhooked her bra and pushed it away.

"Beautiful," he breathed as his fingers brushed one nipple.

Sensations cascaded through her; a deep, delicious ache began to build as his lips covered her nipple. His palm slid along her abdomen and to her thigh. His mouth followed.

"Gil," she whispered, "above the waist, remember?" His response was to kiss her bare skin just above the dark triangle of blue. She shivered.

He moved upward and pulled her tightly to him. This time his kiss was slow, intense, as he cradled her face between his hands. His soft laughter floated around her. "I'm doing this for you, sweet Sara. Don't worry about me—enjoy yourself."

His fingers stroked her slowly, as if he were learning the feel of her body again; his scent, his touch filled Sara's head and clouded her mind with a sense of urgency growing inside her. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, working his way between her breasts and to her belly. His fingers found the aching sensation between her legs where he began to work her gently, slipping one finger inside her, then a second, keeping his thumb on the throbbing bud as his fingers moved, pressing and swirling against the pulsating walls of her feminine core. He felt her climax reaching its crescendo and moved before the tremors ceased to kiss her as a thrilling cry escaped her lips.

A moment later, a half-strangled sound escaped his throat; his back curved in an unexpected force as his orgasm ignited an intense reaction of passion. Sara's hands and legs held them together as he collapsed on top of her. She lay quietly, listening as his breathing gradually returned to normal. In a way she could not explain, she knew they were bound to each other—not merely by passion which was a strong but transient force—but by something beyond the range of human senses.

Grissom became aware of a pleasantly warm feeling on his front half but a definite chill on his backside. Reluctantly, he untangled himself and pushed up. He smiled at the look on Sara's face.

"Are you all right?" he asked, letting his hand glide over her shoulder. He was surprised at his own feeling of satisfaction—at once familiar but intensely different.

"Yes, extremely—I wasn't expecting that." Her brow puckered in a frown. "You—we didn't hurt anything, did we?"

He chuckled, leaned over and kissed her with a lazy satisfaction. "I think all systems have a green light—another few weeks and the drawbridge will definitely see some action." He drew her back into his arms. "I can sleep," he murmured.

Sara said softly, "Dream of me—I'm going to work." He smiled—an intimate easy smile—as his fingers touched her jaw and came to rest on her chin.

"Be safe, honey."

Sara tucked warm covers around his shoulders before heading to the shower; her panties had disappeared at some point. She snickered as she realized she did not remember removing them.

Life would return to normal, she thought—or as normal as they had ever been. This cancer would be a momentary blip in the radar of their lives. It had been a scary road, different from everything else they had been through over the years, but she knew they were in this for life. She dressed quietly and let Hank and Heather into the bedroom where both found a place in bed, beside Grissom who was sleeping soundly as the door clicked shut.

A/N:_ The color for prostate cancer is light blue-look for it! Get your men tested! Now review! We appreciate hearing from you!_


	25. Chapter 25

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 25**

For several nights, Sara was given "soft" cases—those akin to a missing cat—and she headed to Catherine's office.

"Come in," Catherine responded to the faint knock of knuckles on the open door.

Sara eased into a chair, her prepared speech ready. "Catherine, I know what you are doing, and while I appreciate it, I don't feel like I'm pulling my weight. The others are doing twice the work while I—while I go chase lost cats!"

Catherine started laughing as soon as Sara finished the first sentence. She said, "You are right—it's a mutual decision we reached after Gil's surgery." She twisted her pen between her fingers. "I'm your supervisor and I am your friend. You're pregnant—nearly five months—and I've decided your work load will consist of 'chasing cats' or doing paperwork—nothing that is likely to go bad. I do not want anything to happen to you," she dropped the pen. "I do not want to imagine what would happen to Gil if anything happened to you—so every assignment you have will be a soft one and you will have a uniform with you—or Nick or Greg or Ray." She smiled, "any questions?"

Sara was stymied. Everything Catherine said was spoken with honest concern; Sara could not, would not, ask for special treatment, but Catherine was assigning cases. She asked, "What do the guys think?"

"They will do whatever it takes to keep Napoleon and Josephine safe—and that depends on your safety." She reached over to a stack of folders on her desk. "This one's for you tonight—suspicious circs. Dead body, male, in one of those private 'entertainment' clubs off the Strip. A young guy from swing shift is going with you—be nice, let him do most of the work."

Sara drove. The new man was a lanky kid with pale blond hair and pale eyes who looked like a choirboy, but there was something about him that rang faint bells inside her head. And as she drove to the address and listened to Sean Smith talk, she recognized a certain familiar cadence in his voice and mannerism. He had a nice voice—a profound bass coming from a skinny rib cage. As he talked, she thought he probably had to run around in the shower to get wet and knew every skinny joke there was. When he jumped from the vehicle and took her case along with his, she thought of another tall man who had often done the same.

The Bell House loomed in front of them with lights blazing around the entrance and spotlighting the décor in the area near the driveway. They threaded their way around several police cars, an unmarked car, and the coroner's van before climbing a wide staircase to an open doorway. Young Sean's mouth had dropped open when they passed one of the statues standing along side the driveway.

"You know this is an adult entertainment business, right?" Sara asked as Sean turned to look at life-sized sculptures in the entryway. "You ever been to one?"

"No, ma'am. I know what goes on in one, but never been inside."

A policeman pointed upstairs; Sara noticed a detective from days was in a front room talking to several men and a woman. Her work was with the dead so she and Sean headed upstairs where they found David Phillips.

In one of the rooms decorated for personal pleasure—not prostitution, officially, but everything short of it happened here—they found the dead man.

"I just got here," Dave explained after Sara introduced Sean. "The woman who was with him is down the hall with Brass."

It took all three to turn the man over. His expensive pants were unzipped and soiled. Sara said, "Swab, Sean," as she took photographs.

"Yes, ma'am."

Dave grinned at the way the young man addressed Sara. He didn't think that would last long. Sara moved around the room taking more photographs while Sean swabbed and helped Dave.

"What's this?" She bent to the floor and tweezed a small flat round object, holding it up before dropping it into a bindle.

"Here's another one, and more under the body," said Sean as he raked several together. "Candy—hard candy—like Necco wafers—except there shouldn't be a hole in the center." He held the candy up between his fingers. "Never seen one like this."

The two investigators continued working in the room after Sean and Dave, with the assistance of several others, hauled the body to the van. Sean's curiosity became more apparent as they opened several cabinets to find "tools" of entertainment. Brass stopped to tell them what he had learned from the female entertainer.

"She's not telling much—the guy 'fell over dead' while she was performing she says."

Sara chuckled. "Yeah, she was performing—his pants were unzipped."

"Now, Sara, you know this is not a whore house—it's entertainment!"

"And that wasn't semen Sean collected from the satin sheet on this—this platform nor from the dead guy's pants!"

The banter between the two continued while Sean watched; his head turning from Sara to Brass and back as they talked.

"Did she say anything about the candy?" Sean asked the question. "We found candy—like Necco wafers but with a hole."

Brass raised his eyebrows at the sound of the young man's voice. Sara, standing behind Sean, grinned when their eyes met. He had recognized the resemblance to another voice just as she had. He cleared his throat, saying "Nothing about candy—but come with me and we'll ask her." As the young man headed out of the room, Brass turned, smiled and winked at Sara.

Warrick Brown's voice in a tall, skinny, almost colorless white boy was a contradiction for ears and eyes. The signals in Sara's brain had connected during the drive; Brass had made the same link. She smiled as she packed their kits. She wondered if Catherine had noticed the young man's voice.

The girl claimed to have no knowledge of the candy. Sara and Sean headed back to the lab, stopping to eat on the way—Sara discovered another vegetarian—and as she drove into the parking garage, they got a text from the morgue.

"Have you been to the morgue, Sean?"

Sean nodded, "Yes, ma'am—it doesn't bother me."

Sara stopped in the hallway and handed him a lab coat. She smiled at the young man. "Sean, if you and I are going to continue working together, you need to drop the 'ma'am'. Understand? It's just Sara—plain Sara."

Wide-eyed, he nodded, "Yes, ma'am—yes, Sara." He grinned. "Do you think we can work another case? I—I appreciate—I know I'll get better at this."

Sara elbowed his ribs. "Don't faint in autopsy—and don't puke either." She pushed open the door.

Doc Robbins had found four Necco wafers lodged in the dead man's trachea. "Choked," he explained. "Found this string, too. The candy was stuck together, tangled in the string." He held out a thick thread.

Brass hauled in the woman who had been in the room with the dead man. Sara and Sean watched from the observation room as the girl flirted and joked with Brass.

"He loves doing this," Sara said with a laugh.

They had eaten the candy, she explained, then Mr. Thomas had slipped to the floor. She thought he had passed out and since he had paid for an hour, she "took a break" which turned into a short nap.

"What's with the string?" Brass asked. "It was in his throat."

At the mention of the string, the young woman started to cry, sobbing out an incoherent rambling story. Sean snickered; Sara covered her mouth as she started to laugh.

"He made her a pair of panties out of candy!" Sean snorted. He was trying to keep his laughter quiet.

Sara leaned against the wall and giggled with him, nodding her head. "And then he tried to eat the candy!"

They laughed until they were breathless and Nick opened the door. His puzzled look made Sara laugh harder. Sean tried to look serious which started a new round of laughter between the two.

"What is going on with you two?" Nick glanced into the interrogation room and saw Brass pulling tissues from a box to pass to a crying woman. "What is so funny?"

It took several more minutes before Sara and Sean were able to tell enough of their case for Nick to understand their laughter. Then he said, "Why didn't the guy buy edible underwear? It dissolves in your mouth."

The sound that gushed from Sara's throat caused her to clamp a hand over her mouth; tears of mirth ran down her cheeks. Nick and Sean gave her odd looks before both of them laughed. Nick shrugged, deciding her emotional outburst was due to pregnancy.

_Sara laughed again as she related the story to Grissom_. "I laughed so hard my ribs still hurt! And Sean—you have to meet this kid—sounds so much like Warrick. But his looks are the opposite of Warrick's." She crawled into bed beside Grissom and wrapped an arm over his chest. "When Nick said edible panties dissolved in your mouth, I thought I would die laughing—who would guess sweet Nick knows about edible underwear!"

Grissom rolled to face her. He knew sweet Nick had a very enjoyable life outside of work. While his recovery continued, his stamina had yet to return; he took several naps while his wife worked and once she was home, he was ready to sleep. Sleep after they cuddled for a while, he thought as he kissed her forehead. He looked forward to this affectionate time more than he would admit yet he knew Sara had enjoyed their snuggling in bed for years; once, telling him it was more intimate than sex. They had experienced several intensely passionate sessions since his surgery; each one heightened from the previous time.

He drew his thumb across her parted lips. "How are you feeling?"

"Good," she answered.

The velvety contact of his fingertip on her mouth stole her breath. The small caress was delicate yet extremely intimate. She touched the tip of her tongue to his thumb. Grissom closed his eyes and smiled. Slowly, he lowered his mouth until his lips hovered just above hers. "I miss you when you are gone, dear wife." He kissed her again letting his tongue slide along her lower lip.

Sara responded by deepening the kiss, wrapping arms around his shoulders and finding pleasure with the touch of the man she loved. Grissom's hand cradled her breast as his lips moved along her neck and to her chest. His hand moved to her belly as he made a soft, muffled sound. His mouth placed quick kisses along the growing dome of her abdomen and his hand splayed to cradle it.

He grinned and looked at Sara who was watching him. "They are moving around." He kissed her tummy again. "I know we'll have a girl, Sara—a boy and a girl will suit us perfectly."

"We can find out."

Grissom moved back to face Sara keeping one hand on her and propping his chin on the other. "I want to name our daughter."

Sara laughed, softly. "We might have two boys." Her fingers combed through his hair.

"No," Grissom shook his head. "We've having a boy and a girl. She'll be Aimẻe," he spelled the name, "much loved—Aimẻe Grissom."

Sara kissed him—his chin, his lips, his nose, and each eye, surprised by the sudden rush of love she felt for this man. After several moments, she said "Does this mean I get to name our son?"

Grissom's eyes closed. The sound of her voice saying "our son" had welled inside him in an unexpected wave of emotion. He smiled. "Yes, but not Gilbert—please."

"No," her eyes grew intent and serious. "I can't have two Gilberts in this household—one is enough." She gave him that brilliant smile, one that never failed to warm all the places deep inside him.

Grissom kissed her again, long and deep, a promise for the future. His recovery was progressing as he felt a growing sensation of warmth stirring in his groin. He had circled a date on the calendar.

_A/N: Thanks for reading-this story will be finished sometime next week. So enjoy-send a comment or review! Again, thanks so much to those who do!_


	26. Chapter 26

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 26**

_Grissom had watched the circled date on the calendar for three weeks_; in the past five days he had actually placed a check on each day as a countdown. He knew—Sara knew his 'plumbing' was working. They had spent hours in bed making sure the nerves and blood flow had returned to his groin and most certainly to his penis. Sara had been meticulous in her ministrations of a prescription lotion and to his medications. She had also been adamant about following the doctor's order of "no intercourse for a month" which was nearly six weeks since surgery.

It had taken all the control he possessed not to drag her to bed—and she had purposefully toned down her own libido. She wore long pants to bed and insisted in keeping them on, reminding him of their "above the waist" rule. And they had enjoyed ever minute of their touching for pleasure—heavy petting, Sara called it as they separated one morning. He named it "foreplay for a month". Last night as she dressed for work, he suggested "what's one day?" and she had shaken her head with a laugh.

"I've waited this long—you can wait one more night. Study your spiders while I'm gone."

He had crossed the room to the calendar and circled the fourteen days remaining in the month.

Now he waited—for two hours he had checked the time every ten minutes. He had showered, prepared food, walked Hank, fed Heather, and tried not to think about the increasing sensation of heat rising between his legs. He was desperate for her. At last he heard the garage door and within seconds he was at the door, pulling it open as Sara stepped from the car. She was smiling and holding a small pink bag in her hand.

He would control himself, he vowed. He wanted this occasion to be special for both of them. Her arms went around him very tightly; her mouth opened slightly to his. He slid palms down her spine, taking pleasure in the curve of it. His fingers closed over her hips, the feel of her butt almost sent him over the edge. He urged her against his hips.

A sound went through Sara—a tiny, breathless delicious sound indicating her need was as great as his. He kissed her neck, her ear, buried his nose in clean smelling hair; he groaned as he realized she had showered at work. He pushed her jacket from her shoulders as he kissed her again and again. When her hand pushed under his shirt and she flattened her palm across his chest, the heat was so intense that he groaned with need.

At some point—a few minutes most likely, Grissom looked into Sara's eyes and saw her expression of passion, provocative and teasing at once, flaring as gold sparks in dark chocolate. Quickly, they left the kitchen and got to the bedroom. He tumbled her down onto the sheets and stripped off his shirt as Sara pulled her shirt over her head. Hands reached for pants—and both laughed as they tangled.

"Wait," she whispered as her fingertip felt his erection trapped beneath the fabric of his pants.

He moaned. "I've been waiting!"

She scrambled to her feet and ran back to the kitchen, returning with a small package. She was giggling as she stepped out of her pants, nearly tripped, and righted herself. "Get your pants off, hot stuff, and close your eyes. I have a surprise!"

He did as he was told, pushing his pants off and throwing them across the room as he closed his eyes.

A minute passed before Sara said, "Open!"

She struck a model's pose, a crooked arm, one hand on her bare hip, the other raised above her head—naked except for a red triangle strategically held in place by a thin flat line across her belly and around each hip. Grissom's hand covered his mouth—candy panties. He waved one finger in a circle; she turned, slowly. Giggling, she jumped onto the bed, straddling his legs.

His finger caught the edge of the red triangle. "I can't do these—not today," he playfully teased. "I am in serious need and it doesn't include eating these." He pulled her gently onto her back, bent over her and snapped one of the red candy lines with his fingernail. He caught the triangle on his finger and carried it upward. "Later, dear—when I need a snack!" Then he leaned down and kissed her beautifully rounded belly. She brushed her fingers across the back of his neck and into his hair. After a moment, he gently separated her legs and touched his tongue to the inside of her thigh.

He settled between her legs inhaling the feminine scent he loved—of sea and rare spices he could never name but knew he would recognize the rest of his life. Finding the small sensitive bud, he lowered his head and kissed it. His fingers separated her folds, finding her wet and glistening. He eased one finger inside of her and he heard a sweet sounding gasp and felt fingers tighten in his hair. His tongue flicked against her as her hips shifted and lifted.

"Gil," she said as her breaths came quickly. Sara could feel his hot firm erection against her leg—lower than where she wanted it to be. Her fist tugged at his hair.

He moved, quickly guiding his erection to its place as he propelled himself upward until his body covered hers. He caught her head between his hands and pressed his mouth over hers at the moment his very hard penis entered her body. Similar cries escaped from their throats as waves of pleasure ripped through bodies. He drove himself deep inside her with long, hard thrusts, slowing to kiss her before setting up a rhythm again.

Sara said his name over and over, gripping his shoulders so tightly she thought it would be amazing if she did not leave small gouges in his skin. And a moment later her climax slammed through her; sounds in her head begin to scream with delight but Grissom's mouth had closed over hers again and she seemed to drown in a whirlpool of warmth as she pulled him with her into an ocean of bliss. The sensation was so intimate, so incredibly strong that Sara actually whimpered a soft sob as tremors convulsed through her body.

Grissom came to his senses after he had collapsed across Sara's chest. He raised his head and took in the sight of her sprawled beneath him, her eyes closed, her mouth set in a satisfied smile. Bracing his hands on either side of her warm body, he reluctantly lifted himself from the very damp triangle between her legs. He knew he no longer produced seminal fluid; he was sterile, but he was not impotent.

Sara stirred and opened her tear filled eyes.

"What's this?" he asked as he wiped away the moisture that spilled onto her cheek.

She gave him an odd smile, lifted her hand and caressed his face. "I do believe the drawbridge is working."

_Nick glanced across the room at his friend_ and co-worker dusting for fingerprints with her usual dexterity and skill. He smiled as he watched her work. Sara had returned to Vegas with a confidence and competence that surpassed everyone in the department. There had been doubts—not from him—but several in the lab had quietly waged she would not last and Greg had been the one to clean their pockets. He chuckled. And now Mrs. Grissom was pregnant—just beginning to get the baby bump that she was managing to hide under her work vest.

"You want to get some food?" He asked.

"I can keep going," she answered.

"Yeah, we can, but my stomach is rumbling and yours must be too. This will wait—call Grissom and tell him we'll pick him up for a pancake special."

"He would like that."

Grissom met them at the curb and Nick complimented him on his healthy look as he crawled into the back seat. He leaned between the seats so he and Sara could kiss. Nick grinned and shook his head, an action noticed by Sara.

"What's that about?" she asked.

Nick laughed, saying "If I live to be one hundred I'll never figure out what took you two so long to make this move—you were made for each other."

The sound from the rear seat was a combination of a growl and chuckle. Sara turned in her seat to look at her husband who said: "All my fault—a slow learner. Don't let it happen to you, Nick. When you find the right girl, marry her—quickly!"

_Catherine closed a file and passed it across the table_. Sara immediately reached for it while still reading from another file.

"You missed a signature here," she said as she handed one page back to Catherine.

This was working out well, Catherine thought. Nick was great with scheduling field work and assigning cases but he wasn't great with paperwork. But Sara was perfect—her attention to detail caught missing signatures and dates, misplaced forms, and gathered everything into logical order.

"This is not the first time you've done this," Catherine said with a soft laugh. She suddenly remembered how a certain supervisor sloppy with paperwork had developed an orderly, systematic filing system. "You helped Grissom."

Sara laughed. "I did—once I realized we would never have time together because of this mass of paperwork the job creates. So, yes, occasionally, I'd help out."

Catherine closed another folder. "How are you feeling?"

"Good, great," Sara said as she kept reviewing the contents of the file.

"Sara," Catherine placed her hand on the papers and Sara looked up. "You know we'll do anything for you and Gil—but we have to know—we have to know what you need! What you want us to do! This is a big event—there's so much to do and plan. Let us help. Is Grissom doing okay? I mean, you always say he's fine—he says he's fine. Is his recovery going as expected? Are you getting ready for two babies? Are you going to move or make room in the condo? Have you thought about names? What about a nursery—you need two of everything!" As usual Catherine spoke in such a rush there was no need to answer her questions until she paused for breath.

"We are both doing fine—really. Gil's plans are to start work with the university research group next week, and he's doing really well. All systems," she grinned mischievously, "are glowing green." She leaned back in the chair. "As far as baby planning—Catherine, there is so much I don't know it's scary. Two babies and I've never changed a diaper—but we know we will need lots of diapers. We plan to change the little office into a little nursery."

Sara paused as she leaned forward. "Before Gil's surgery we went to one of those mega-baby stores—have you been inside one of those? It is overwhelming all the stuff they sell for babies, yet we saw babies in Costa Rica with nothing more than a sling wrapped around the mother! So—we are thinking less rather than more. I mean, we'll get the car seats and beds but I can not imagine why a baby needs a warmer for washcloths!"

Catherine let out an exaggerated sigh. "Honey, you will need things you've never thought about!" She picked up her pen and tapped the table. "Everyone wants to have a party—bring baby gifts, watch you open…"

Sara was shaking her head. "No, no party. We don't want a party—that's so," she grimaced, saying "not what we want, please."

Catherine tried another approach. "Okay, no party. What if we go back to that mega-store and look at all that 'stuff' and make a list—like a baby bathtub and high chairs and car seats and pick out blankets and crib sheets. You really do need a plan!"

Within hours, Sara found herself standing inside the baby story with Catherine on her left and Greg on her right. Greg was as excited as a kid in a candy story and Sara was not sure how he got there. Several times she had stated as firmly as she could "we are looking not buying!"

The sliding doors behind her opened and she turned as she heard two familiar voices. Grissom was laughing at something Nick had said and holding out hands to greet her. "We're shopping for little Napoleon and Josephine!" He said as he hugged Sara. "Who's responsible? I've been trying to get her to do this for weeks!"

"Not buying, only looking," she said.

"Making a list," Catherine said.

"We can go to the toys first!" said Greg.

"Now, who has the most experience with babies?" Nick asked, pointing to himself. "Nieces and nephews—car seats—I'm an expert on those!" He pointed toward the back of the store.

Sara turned back to Grissom and placed her forehead on his shoulder, lifting it several times as she pretended to pound her brain for agreeing to this excursion. Grissom's arm came around her shoulders.

"Come on, honey. Everyone wants to celebrate." He kissed the top of her head.

She put her mouth next to his ear and whispered, "I have this day circled on the calendar for something else."

Three hours later, the group left the store with everyone except Sara holding large bags, and Catherine had a long list of 'necessities'. Nick was right—he knew car seats and pointed out safety features for a dozen different brands. He even knew which car seats had never been recalled for safety issues. Greg had found toys, buying two little giraffes, a box of soft squeaky shakers, and a musical lamb. And Catherine had insisted on buying sets of blankets and infant clothes in half a dozen pastel colors. Sara wasn't sure what was in the shopping bag in Grissom's hand; two hours ago she had stopped saying they were just looking because no one was paying any attention to her.

Sara looked at Grissom and realized for the first time in weeks he was excited; color had returned to his face, his body no longer exhibited the aftereffects of surgery, his voice was animated with amusement instead of exhaustion. She slipped her hand into the angle of his arm and squeezed.

"You okay?" She asked and he responded by kissing her.

_Greg had driven the Grissom's home_; he had to smile any time he thought of Sara Sidle and Gil Grissom as a married couple. After he figured out he never stood a chance with Sara because she was head-over-heals in love with their supervisor he had worked very hard to be her good friend. And while he did not know all her secrets, he had come to understand Sara in ways that most people never would. He had known how certain cases affected her emotional state, how devastated she was when Gil Grissom turned away from her, and how the two lovers had managed to keep their relationship private for so long.

He had spent long hours thinking about the way Grissom exposed his love for Sara—Greg doubted it would have ever been known if Natalie Davis had not kidnapped Sara. But then the traumatic event had overwhelmed Sara's ability to recover and return to work. He suspected she was hiding depression and despair but he did not know the real reason until she was gone. At that time he hated Grissom—the man who loved her the most should have known Sara's secrets. With emails and many phone calls, he had learned of Sara's childhood tragedy and had realized how much she loved Grissom and Grissom loved her.

Today, seeing them together, planning for their future, a restlessness inside his own mind had calmed. This was the way life was supposed to be, he thought. Not murder, death, tragedy, and misfortune; he decided he would ask the young woman he had noticed on day shift to lunch one day—or to dinner.

_Grissom opened the door to the condo_ and dropped the bags to the floor. This was the longest he had been out of the house in weeks and he had enjoyed every minute of it. Yet he was drained more than he wanted to admit. Sara's hands came around his waist and she hugged him close to her chest.

"Get to bed, dear. You have to be exhausted. I'll walk Hank and join you very soon."

He turned to face her, wrapping arms around her. "I—we have—circled—something else…"

The smile on her face told him she had not forgotten their 'appointment'. "The day isn't over and Hank needs a walk and you need a rest. And I might have a surprise." She touched his chin. "Rest while I'm gone."

He shuffled toward the bedroom. "No candy panties—I don't think I can take another cherry or cinnamon or blueberry flavored treat like that."

When she returned, Grissom was asleep in the middle of the bed; Heather was curled between his feet, her head on his ankle. Sara lifted the kitten and carried her to the kitchen. The shopping bags from the baby store were scattered around the living room and kitchen. She picked up one bag—it was Grissom's—and pulled out two pale pink and two pale blue shirts not much larger than her hand. She smoothed each one out reading "Give Peas a Chance" printed on two. She laughed. The other two had a carrot and a rabbit printed on the front with "Veggie Baby" below the carrot.

Before getting in bed, she took a quick shower, examining her belly afterwards. Pregnancy was amazing—in a weird way, she thought. She regularly felt the soft drumbeat of a foot or the flutter of a hand or maybe it was a somersault—she wasn't sure what was going on inside her. She dug around in a drawer and found the silky red nightie Catherine had given her. She thought she would surprise her husband when he woke up. She giggled at her reflection.

When she got into bed, Grissom moved enough to wrap an arm around her, mumbling "love you" when she snuggled against his chest.

A/N:_ Enjoy-draw bridge working, babies growing-fluff fluff fluff! Thanks for comments and reviews! _


	27. Chapter 27

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 27**

_Grissom stood to stretch his legs_. Fading light meant he had a couple of hours to track the young tarantula he had been stalking all afternoon. Definitely moving to find a mate and so far, the youngster had had no luck. He checked his watch—Sara would be leaving the house and he should climb a rock outcrop fifty yards ahead of him and call her, but decided to wait; he would call on his way into town. If he could get this one spider tagged tonight it would give him three for the day—a second male along with the female he had found earlier. The female had been a big one—probably twelve years old judging by her size. This little guy would make a fine meal for the big female if he wasn't careful. He bent to his work. Getting back into field research was a stroke of luck and one he could afford to enjoy after spending so many years employed by the Clark County Crime Lab.

He chuckled as he watched the burrow. This little guy should be ready to prowl. And he could daydream as he waited; his thoughts were of his wife. Sara was working only three nights a week and had two more weeks before she started maternity leave and four weeks until her delivery date, or due date. He was confused about due dates and delivery dates but knew the time was coming when their household would welcome two babies. Catherine, Nick and Greg had kept their word to keep Sara safe—and Jim Brass added another layer of safety. Sara had good-naturedly complained at how much she stayed in the lab, doing paperwork most of the time, but she also knew she was getting special treatment from people who were their friends.

Shaking his head and smiling to no one, he still had to pinch himself about all that had happened in the preceding months—marriage, Paris, pregnancy, cancer, twins—he chuckled. And now he was sitting in the desert watching for spiders. He checked his phone, knowing there was no reception in this canyon unless he climbed higher, and again thought about calling his wife. She had been sleeping, even more beautiful than usual as she entered her last month of pregnancy. Her face bloomed, her abdomen had expanded as the babies grew, and her body, her long legs were as sexy as ever.

He chuckled—just thinking about her walking across the room was enough to cause his own 'bloom' in his groin. And she had been willing to experiment in ways most men only dreamed about when the wife was pregnant. The day before they had held each other, facing each other—her belly pressed against his chest—until a slow, gentle orgasm swept through Sara. When he pushed his erection into her, she was so wet and tight, her muscles trembling with such force he could believe that orgasm might trigger labor—except as a scientist he knew it did not. He shifted his thoughts to babies. When he left, the babies were also resting—he had spent hours watching in amazement as Sara's shirt moved when they were active. The last ultrasound had shown both babies with heads down—the doctor had said "getting ready for delivery".

They had the nursery almost ready for two. Catherine had been somewhat dismayed with the minimal furnishings of the room, finally gave up providing decorating advice to Sara. And the little room was all Sara—painted a pale green, two little beds, a shared dresser, and a chosen boy's name spelled out above one bed. She had decided on one name for the boy, he had decided on a name for a girl, but officially, they knew gender of one baby.

Sara still refused to learn if the second one was male or female—she wanted a surprise. But he could read upside down and had seen the gender of both on her chart weeks ago, and he was keeping a secret. He shifted his weight, looked skyward to watch the setting sun; his life was better than ever he decided. He would wait another fifteen minutes on this spider before leaving; suddenly, he shoved his phone in his pocket when he saw a hairy leg appear out of the dark hole in front of him.

"Come on out," he whispered to the spider. "Your adventure is just beginning."

_Sara got to work early_—Grissom had left while she slept, leaving a note saying he would bring dinner to the lab. She seldom left the lab—Catherine had been adamant about keeping her away from potential danger. That meant no assignments that involved a gun or a domestic disturbance or robbery with a weapon—as she drove into the parking garage she realized she had not seen a dead body in weeks. She had processed so many snatch and grabs, burglaries of unoccupied homes, trick rolls, car thefts and lost possessions of tourists that a wood-chipped body would be a welcomed diversion.

Greg waited for her as he had done for two months. And Nick would walk her to the car at the end of her shift. Her guardian angels she called them. And if they had "real" cases, young Sean Smith would be with her. She crawled out of her car and stretched her back, waiting for Greg to walk over.

"Hey, Sara! You're early—looking good today!" His face broadened with a grin.

Sara's face brightened. "I look like a cow, Greg. What's up? I haven't been on a real case in weeks."

"Quiet day and a quiet night. Catherine has one d.b. she's giving to Sean and Nick, so" he stretched out the last word, "you and I get paperwork and cold cases for now." Casually, he lifted her bag from her shoulder and carried it inside as they talked about work, a new girl working days, and Grissom's spider work. For several hours the two talked as they worked side-by-side—jumping from movies and music to babies and bosses and back to something related to a case until Catherine appeared in the doorway.

"Stash the paperwork, fellows. Sara, are you up for a little field work?" Catherine asked.

"Sure," she gave a cheerful smile. "A couple of dead bodies, maybe?"

A major break-in and theft of objects, Catherine explained, at a very exclusive art gallery. "Nick is already there with Sean and we are following!"

It was a business for the very elite, very wealthy who wanted to shop in privacy for the treasures of the world. While maintaining regular hours, the establishment also opened for special shoppers. Tonight, recognized famous names had been given for an after hours appointment but instead of a world-famous actress and her husband, four expensively dressed men had entered the store, threatened to break priceless art objects unless a certain box was opened, and had gotten away with trays of rings, necklaces, bracelets, brooches and assorted ornaments—all gold or platinum, and diamonds, emeralds, rubies, all authenticated antiques from eastern Europe.

Almost a dozen employees needed to be fingerprinted, and photographs had to be taken, security tapes checked and furious owners to calm. After they photographed the scene, Sara started fingerprinting the employees while Greg and Sean dusted surfaces and Nick and Catherine had the owners and the press corralled in two lavish show rooms. Sara lined the employees along a short hallway, set her fingerprint kit out on a back room work table, and explained the procedure. All went smoothly with few complaints; the last employee, an older man, asked if he could straighten up the mess—this was not an establishment where disorder was usual, she thought. Sara nodded and went back to processing the fingerprint cards she had lined up on the table, sliding each one into the scanner, and took no notice of the man's clean up efforts.

When a large plastic tub thumped to its side, it startled Sara for a few seconds, but she replied to the man's apology with "That's okay." In his effort to upright the tub, his foot hit a brown bottle sitting on the floor, tipping it over; its contents mixing with the spill from the tub. And later, Sara would say only a minute passed before she heard an odd sound and turned to see the man falling to the floor. As she took a step in his direction, her foot splashed in a liquid covering the floor. A sweet odor hit her nose—she reached for her phone as she coughed.

_Grissom's young tarantula crawled from his burrow_, appeared to look around, and headed west. Grissom followed with his folding net and supplies; he didn't want to frighten the little guy into retreating back into his hole. In the dying light, Grissom saw other movement around him—a few leaves slowly moving with the wind. He had taken several steps before his mind caught up with his assumption. There was no wind. There were no large leaves in the desert. He reached for his small flashlight, flicked it on while shielding the light, and turned around—he hated to lose his young tarantula but he could hear the soft rustle of creatures moving on the sandy soil of the desert.

The light's beam was enough to poorly illuminate a small swath of ground; he slowly moved the light back and forth, not believing what he was seeing. He forgot about his lone spider as his light picked up another one, a few feet away another tarantula moved and another and another. He stepped quickly and gently, shining the light on his feet as he tried to count tarantulas moving across an invisible line in the sand, the light did not seem to frighten the 'migration'—he did not believe it was a true migration as most experts believed the mass movement was simply males looking to mate. He knew it was seasonal yet rarely seen. He dug a small camera out of his pocket—this was unbelievable luck, he thought, as he began to snap photographs as quickly as his finger could press the button. He took a photograph of a large tarantula crawling across his shoe, another one showing four of the creatures scrambling over and around a small rock.

He knew he was the only researcher working this far into the desert—probably the only one working tonight, he thought. So he followed the spiders into the darkness, forgetting he would have to return, forgetting he had promised dinner to his wife, and never realizing he had dropped his cell phone in his rush to pull the camera from his pocket.

_Sara coughed again but the sweet smell seemed to catch in her throat_; she was suddenly lightheaded, caught off guard by dizziness and rapid nausea, yet she knew she needed help. She recognized the smell as an unfamiliar chemical. She tried calling out but never heard her voice as she caught the edge of the table. She staggered—she didn't want to fall—she couldn't fall—her last thought was of protection. She slipped to the floor, landing on her butt before she fell to one side.

Her sharp exhalation and cough had been so quiet, out of earshot of others, no one noticed, but some unusual sound caused Greg to look at Sean. "What was that?" he asked.

Sean shrugged and glanced at the back room where Sara had been working. "Where's Sara?"

Greg called her name and getting no answer, he headed for the room. Almost immediately, he caught a faint whiff of a chemical; he yelled "Sean, get the respirator!"

As the new guy in the field, Sean did as he was told, quickly; without question he dumped the contents of his field kit and Greg's kit onto the floor, grabbed both face respirators and ran toward Greg. At the same time, he was shouting, "Call 9-1-1" over and over as loudly as he could.

Greg had not waited for the respirator when he saw Sara on the floor. He held his breath and ran into the room, grabbing the neck of her vest and pulling her not to gently out of the room. By the time he reached the doorway, Sean had arrived. "There's another one in there," he gasped as he took the small respirator from Sean and tried to fasten it to Sara's face. He was dizzy, clumsy with his efforts.

"There's a haze near the ceiling," Sean said. Snapping the second respirator across his face, he ducked and crabbed across the floor, grabbed the man's foot and pulled him out into the hallway. He quickly closed the door behind him, jerked his vest and shirt over his head and stuffed both along the bottom of the door.

Chaos had followed Sean's shouts for help. Everyone in the building ran toward them. Nick arrived within seconds—in time to see Sean enter the back room on hands and knees and realized some type of disaster had occurred. Then he saw Sara. Instantly he called for paramedics before asking what happened.

Greg wheezed, "Odor—chemical smell." His hands were shaking. "She's breathing but it's on her pants and shirt." He wheezed again and Nick took over fastening the respirator over Sara's face.

Nick shouted directions: "Everyone out of here. Get back now—get the paramedics in here!"

Catherine appeared. "Nick! Greg! What's going on?" She had stopped with the others when she heard Nick's warning. She could see two people on the floor. "Oh, God—Sara!"

In the pandemonium paramedics arrived and in the narrow confines of the hallway, Nick, Greg, and Sean wrapped Sara in hazmat blankets. Another breathing apparatus covered her face. More people arrived in full hazmat suits. And Catherine had tried constantly to reach Grissom by cell phone, unsuccessfully.

As Nick folded the blanket over Sara, her eyes flickered opened; she grimaced and groaned. He said, "You're okay, Sara. You're going to be okay."

Sara knew she was looking at a ceiling and then Nick's face was before her eyes. She felt giddy, confused; she tried to talk but pain gripped her belly, seized her back, lashed across her chest. Her hands tried to clutch her abdomen. "Grissom," she whispered. "Get Grissom." Her quiet words echoed in the mask across her face. She tried to pull her knees up in an effort to ease the pain.

One of the paramedics asked "How far along is she?"

_A/N: Two, maybe 3, chapters left-so review if you haven't, and if you have! Love to hear who is reading this one. _


	28. Chapter 28

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 28**

_It always surprised Grissom how eyes adjusted to darkness_. He had not noticed how light had disappeared until he realized he could no longer see the crawling tarantulas—and as suddenly as they appeared, they disappeared. Or they out-walked him, he suspected. His flashlight had died an hour before his camera battery and as he came to a stop, he realized clouds had blocked the moon and the desert was spread before him in total darkness. His direction had been a westward course, but he had made several turns following the spiders; now he turned in a full circle. He gazed at nothing—he could see faint outlines of bushes, then blackness, and if possible, even backer in the distance. He would be lucky to get out of this canyon before dawn and, he decided, it might be safer to wait for first light. He reached for his phone—a text message would get to Sara—but he only found his camera, the flashlight, and an almost empty water bottle in his pockets.

He swore a few times at his dilemma—and his own foolishness. He had been concentrating so intently on following tarantulas that he had lost his phone, walked to far, let his batteries die, and forgotten to contact his wife. He cursed again. She would never let him forget this—especially the part about walking to far. He plucked the hat from his head and almost flung it into the sand before thinking about it. Instead, he kicked sand in frustration.

For a while he paced, kicking sand as he walked. Then he realized he was wasting energy and he sat down. Better than wandering in a circle or stepping into a hole or stumbling on a sleeping scorpion or snake. It was completely quiet now with only an occasional fluttering of wings of an unseen bird or scampering of a small animal disturbing the silence. He propped arms across his knees and rested his head. He worried that Sara would be concerned when he did not arrive with dinner. If he was lucky he would get back to his vehicle at first light and get home before she arrived. He sighed—he had not had much luck tonight—except for the tarantulas. He smiled and rested his forehead on his arms.

He wished for a large rock—big enough to use for a bed. He whistled and listened for its echo; it did not help. He swallowed the last of his water and grinned as a raindrop hit his face. He stuck his tongue out—at least he had water. And he remembered the dry creek bed he had crossed, and where he had taken dozens of photos of tarantulas crossing the sand. Maybe it would not rain enough to fill the creek; he grimaced. Wet clothes would be another thing he would have to explain to Sara. He made a weatherman's prediction that rain clouds had moved from the mountains to the desert. Not that the knowledge helped his current situation. Finding it hard to believe he had walked away from his day pack, lost his phone, and let his batteries run down, he searched his pockets again, finding nothing.

After a time, the rain slacked to a sprinkle then to occasional drops and silence except for drips falling from the desert scrub. In the quietness he heard a recognizable power-driven sound—an engine—the thump-thump of helicopter rotor blades in the distance. Intently, he listened as it seemed to fade, return, fade, and return again. Search pattern, he thought.

Someone was lost or hurt and the rescue team was working in the night. At least the rain would help heat seeking equipment. He hoped it wasn't a child or an injured hiker. He stood as he was thinking and began moving toward the noise. But moving confused him; the helicopter's noise echoed and Grissom ended up nose-to-nose with a flat faced rock. Keeping one arm outstretched so his fingertips touched the rock, he walked, stumbling every few steps, not knowing if he was walking further into a canyon or walking out of one. He stopped every few minutes and listed to the sound—definitely a search pattern. And as the steady drone grew faint, he heard another sound. Voices—he heard his own name being called.

His reaction was one of irritation—why would anyone be searching for him? He reasoned another possibility—someone was lost, the search crew had found his vehicle, and their calls were signaling him to join the search. He shouted "Here!" several times and heard the helicopter returning—coming in his direction. Until its light silhouetted the top rim of the canyon, he had no idea of its direction, but suddenly the glare of a spotlight was behind him, above him, passing over his head by several yards. He pulled the camera out of his pocket and held it above his head. The silver surface caught and reflected the light.

_Wherever she was, it was not comfortable_. Sara tried to move and seemed to be pinned across her chest against a hard surface. And she felt cramped—her knees were bent at an odd angle. Delirium, she thought in a moment of clarity, takes strange forms. She remembered the sweet chemical smell and the older man falling, but how she got in this bright white room must be part of her confusion. She kept asking for her husband but she could not hear her voice. At one time she thought she was running down an endless corridor walled in mist, out of breath, panting, calling for Grissom who kept retreating into a shadowy form.

She thought she might have fallen asleep watching a horror movie, but decided one could not feel a movie as she felt this misty fog settle on her face. Her hands were useless—still attached to her arms but she couldn't get them to move. A soft cloth touched her face. She heard a voice—Catherine's, she thought. She tried to ask "Where's Gil?" but somewhere in her brain she knew she spoke gibberish and the cloth was gone, the mist returned. She turned her face and tried to think of something else—a thought niggled in her mind. She was running fingerprints and had smelled something sweet, but that wasn't important. Her body ached—weirdly so—that was what she was trying to remember. Babies, she remembered—she was pregnant with twins and she should not be breathing noxious fumes. She tried to groan and felt a cool hand on her face and thought no more.

The second time she woke, she felt ill—her head pounded, her stomach quivered, and her eyes hurt when she tried to open them. Someone was ill in this clean, bright room; Sara heard a groan and a second later realized it was her voice. Dark blobs—hair, heads, hands—came into focus. She closed her eyes.

At last the mist lifted and Sara heard soft laughter. Ahead of her she could see lights—faintly but growing stronger as she walked. Her steps dragged as she tried to get her heavy body to move. She was carrying an unfamiliar bulk and as the light grew brighter, she saw faces she should recognize—smiling, welcoming her. But she kept looking for Grissom—all these faces and none had eyes that blazed with blue brilliance or a cleft in their chin. Summoning all her strength, she screamed his name. He answered her. "Sara," the well-known, beloved voice came to her ears.

The light vanished, the laughter and faces faded with a long sigh and when she opened her eyes, she could do no more than raise her head a few inches. The thud it made as it dropped back to the mattress convinced her she was no longer dreaming. She called for Grissom again but the sound was scarcely louder than a whimper, yet brought immediate results. The hands, the arms, the face before hers caused an intense emotional response as she felt his hands on her face, his arms lifting her to his face. She was so relieved, so happy he was beside her.

It seemed to go on for a long time—this confusion of time and space was muddled between dreams and reality. But each time she woke she knew Grissom was there. Her dreams became variations of actual events, lasting no more than a few minutes as her brain began to exercise itself. She dreamed with crystalline clarity the first meal shared with Grissom. She returned to the sunny day she arrived in Las Vegas and to the cold night when Nick was found buried in a clear coffin. She dreamed of food—eating eggs with Greg, drinking beer with Warrick and Nick, and tasting sweet wine with Catherine. In time, her dreams of others passed and she dreamed of Grissom.

Grissom whom she loved—standing at the door of her small apartment, in the rainforest of Costa Rica, beside her as he placed a ring on her finger. She had loved him since she met him, and knew she would love him with her dying breath. Grissom was part of her; he had let down his normal defenses the day of their first meeting, and by the time she moved to Vegas, it was too late for boundaries. These dreams calmed her mind. Restlessness left her body. Smooth, cool hands washed her, clothed and covered her, gently cared for her.

Always near her, she felt Grissom's presence, the heat from his body near her shoulder if his hand was not resting on her body. Slowly, she returned to wakefulness and a smile on his face. As Sara woke and opened her eyes to blue ones she saw the reflection of concern and fear.

"Hey," she whispered in a voice so hoarse she barely recognized the sound.

His face did not change, but some of the worry left his eyes. "Hey," he whispered.

She wet her lips with her tongue. "What time is it?" She asked.

"Sixteen minutes past two," he was smiling. "It's been almost twenty-four hours." His hand cradled around her neck. "A chemical spill—acute benzene poisoning—with Drano mixed in." His hand brushed a lock of hair away from her face. "You're going to be fine."

She tried to move her hands and couldn't.

"You've got a chemical burn on your palm—it will heal. Your other arm has an IV."

She looked at the mound of blankets covering her body. Tears welled in her eyes. "What happened?"

Grissom smiled. "They are fine." He moved to one side and nodded his head toward the window, darkened with drawn shades.

Below the window were two hospital isolettes.

_A/N: Two more chapters-one with smut, one without-you knew we were into fluff, so review and next chapter soon!_


	29. Chapter 29

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 29**

_The next few days sapped and exhausted Sara_ more than she thought possible but she had spent enough time recovering to know that health would return. This was more like a case of the flu than childbirth, she supposed. At times, she was shaky and cramped, aching and unable to eat, but, except when she slept, she held her babies. The first time she witnessed Grissom picking up one of the babies, her mouth opened in astonishment at the easy way he brought the bundle across the room and carefully placed it in her arms.

He said, "Aimee, meet your mom." The smile on his face was a mixture of awe and happiness. As if on cue, the dark haired baby opened her eyes and seemed to study her mother's face with the intensity of a much older child.

"Oh, Gil," was all Sara managed to say as her fingertip traced along a tiny chin to an ear and into the fringe of hair around her face. She folded the soft blanket back to reveal a fist not much larger than the end of her thumb. Little fingers uncurled and wrapped around her finger. She looked at her husband and tried to keep tears from spilling onto her cheeks.

"It's pretty overwhelming—she was born first. Her tiny foot popped out before the doctor finished your incision."

Sara unwrapped the blanket so a skinny little foot appeared. She brought the baby to her face and breathed deeply. "She smells like us," she said with a smile.

He brought their son to her bed, handling him in the same way, one hand cradling his head with the other along the infant's back. "He's a bit quieter, but the nurses say it might be a couple of weeks before either one really gets a good cry going."

They managed to swap babies by placing Aimee between Sara's legs as she took the boy from Grissom. "I've called him 'little Grissom' so you can give him his name," he said.

Again, Sara was quiet as she opened the blanket for an inspection of hands and feet, arms and legs. She peeked inside the diaper and grinned. "He's a Grissom, isn't he," and she laughed as she looked at her husband. She continued her examination of the small baby, freeing both feet from his blanket. "He also has your feet!" She wrapped thumb and finger around a tiny ankle and kissed the bottom of the foot. Her delight in discovering this caused relief to flood through Grissom. Her expression changed to one of serious thoughtfulness. "I thought I had decided on his name—but now that he's here, I want him to be William." She laughed, "I'll have to take the other name off the wall."

She was wobbly as she took her first steps away from the bed and Grissom kept a steady hand on her back as she bent over the clear hospital bassinets.

"This is a monitor for their hearts," he explained, "and a temperature monitor—both built into the unit." He pointed to the silent blips on the small screens. "The nurses can see and hear this in the nursery—we push this button when we pick one up." He pulled one of two rocking chairs in the room to Sara. When she was settled with a pillow under her arm, he picked up William and placed him on her chest.

Grissom had learned so much in the hours of her unconsciousness; amazed, Sara watched him, and then she realized how familiar his actions were. He handled a baby the same way he handled a butterfly. He changed a diaper as easily and carefully as he caught an insect in a net. He read the cardio-monitor and temperature charts, showing Sara how to reset the controls when placing a baby in the small bed. He demonstrated how to wrap a baby in a cocooned blanket.

"A little warm bug," he said as he cradled little Aimee in his arm while Sara held William and stroked her fingers over the baby's head. She smiled and realized her head no longer ached as it had for hours.

The nurses showed Sara how to feed the babies; she had thought she would breast feed, especially after seeing women in Costa Rica with their nursing infants, and she had spent hours reading about it. However, after benzene exposure, her babies nursed from little bottles of formula. And her husband was delighted to hold and fed one while she fed the other baby.

And between sleeping, holding and feeding babies, Grissom told of his night in the desert without mentioning his recklessness of walking nearly ten miles after losing his cell phone. His story began with the chemical spill.

The infants had been born by caesarean within hours of her arrival at the hospital. Grissom had barely made it in time, and only because Catherine Willows ranted at the sheriff and questioned the team of physicians until they agreed to her demands. While the mother was going to miss the birth of her children, Catherine insisted the father would not. Meanwhile, everyone from the university's research team to off-duty deputies and the county's rescue squad turned out to hunt for Grissom once his vehicle and phone were located in the western desert.

Grissom laughed as he related his "rescue" by none other than Undersheriff Conrad Ecklie. "The helicopter came in low, never landed, and I looked up to see Ecklie's face and his arm extending to me." He could laugh now that it was over. "I knew something had happened for Conrad to be in a helicopter looking for me!"

Sara had never been near death—not that anyone would admit—due to the fast action of Greg and Sean putting a respirator over her face once she was out of the room. Nick had wrapped her in blankets as a paramedic cut off her clothes that prevented chemical burns. Along with unconsciousness she had been confused, had tremors, and at times had become extremely agitated. A tube had been inserted to aid her breathing—and not one person in the hospital or the lab or the national poison control center could determine the consequences, short or long term, when a woman who was eight months pregnant had a one-time exposure to benzene and Drano drain crystals.

After his 'rescue' Grissom had gotten to the hospital in time to make the next decision and sat at Sara's head while doctors and nurses strapped Sara to an operating table. He almost cried when he saw their babies the first time—a tiny foot had appeared as the doctor completed the incision and everyone in the room had laughed. The physician's hand scooped in and lifted a dark haired baby and in seconds the infant was placed in Grissom's arms. Just as quickly, the second baby was born and placed on Sara's chest. A sob escaped his lungs when she gave no indication of knowing what was happening.

One of the doctors seemed to recognize the reason for his moment of anguish. "Don't worry—most of us were born to mother's who were put in deep sleep. She'll be fine—the babies are fine."

The hospital staff checked and assessed and rechecked and reassessed the Grissom twins, keeping them in the newborn nursery for hours. Grissom was so anxious about Sara's health that only Catherine could persuade him to leave her bedside to check on the infants. When they were fifteen hours old, the twins were declared healthy and strong, appearing unaffected by their mother's exposure, and if the father wanted them in the room with their mother, they would be moved. Grissom chased away their friends. "Sara needs quiet—rest," he said. And he was selfish; he wanted Sara to meet her babies without others watching her reaction. He wanted to be the one to show her their miracles.

Her case could be followed and written up for research, one physician said as he tested baby William's reflexes as they were preparing for discharge. She signed papers agreeing to monthly assessments for herself and her twins. Grissom learned to set up breathing monitors at home. Both infants were small, scrawny rather than plump, but otherwise healthy, and almost disappeared in the baby seats Nick had placed in Grissom's vehicle.

Catherine crawled in the rear seat to sit next to baby William; Sara sat beside Aimee while Grissom drove and Nick and Greg followed in their cars. Sara had not realized how a short ride home could exhaust her, but she barely made it up the steps—and she was not carrying a baby. Jim Brass stood in her kitchen wearing a flowery apron; he was baking bread. Immediately, when he saw the paleness of her face, his arm circled her waist and he helped her to a nearby chair.

He whispered, "Sweetie, say the word. I'll run all these people off so you can rest." She shook her head.

"You are all family, Jim." She replied. Then she quietly giggled. "What I really need is a small glass of wine."

_Three months later, Grissom and Sara placed two bundles _of sleeping humanity into separate cribs. Both babies were wrapped in soft flannel blankets, swaddled from shoulders to toes. Dark hair, wispy and curly, made the two infants appear similar, but to their parents, or anyone who looked closely, they were nothing alike. William—Will was quiet and plump and pink with blue eyes that would remain intensely blue. His pale eyebrows often shot upward when something unexpected happened and, for lack of a better description, he was hesitant, almost timid if one could label a baby. Aimee was a different little thing—her baby blue eyes had changed to her mother's brown color within a month after her birth. She raised her head before she was ten days old and watched everyone and anything around her. And she made noise—rarely crying, but gurgled and babbled and cooed while she was awake. Her lashes made dark crescents on fair skin and when she smiled her toothless mouth had a strong resemblance to her mother's.

For a moment, the parents stood beside the beds. Grissom leaned over one bed and adjusted the light blanket. There was no doubt in his mind; he was the father of the most intelligent, most beautiful children in the world.

"What are you thinking?" Sara asked.

He chuckled, saying "The same thing I always think—we made two beautiful children."

She gave him her wonderfully brilliant smile, the one that always warmed all the places deep inside him and most days, remained as a permanent fixture across her face. Motherhood agreed with her and she continued to be surprised at the simplest achievements of her children and how much she enjoyed being with them.

He added, "And I have the most beautiful wife—the most brilliant soul mate in the universe."

Sara slipped her hand around his elbow and turned away from the baby beds. "I love you, Gil."

He knew he had married a woman of many talents, he thought. Under her supervision, everything in his world, his children, his home, himself, thrived. He realized she was leading him to their bed.

"It's time for our nap," she smiled slowly and tugged his shirt over his head. "But you are wearing entirely too many clothes!"

Grissom laughed, a sound low and husky and warmed by happiness. She opened her arms and let him remove her shirt, let him unzip her pants and pushed them to the floor. He returned to her belly and gently kissed her stomach, just above the faint scar along the lower front of her pelvis. His finger went underneath the elastic of her purple panties. Sara heard him make a sound that closely resembled a growl as his teeth bit the fabric and peeled it away from her skin. In a few minutes, they were both on the bed. He pulled her down so she fit between his thighs and wrapped his arms around her. Sara framed his face with her hands and kissed him until he groaned. She could feel him pressed against her, warm, heavy and rigid with desire.

He slid one hand down her back and traced the cleft that separated the swells of her butt. His fingers dipped lower, finding the place where he wanted to be—where she wanted him, and found her damp, throbbing entrance.

Sara bent to his neck and kissed him from his ear to his chest, nuzzling her face against his soft beard. Her hands threaded through his hair as her mouth traveled from his neck to his chest. He tugged her upward and positioned her so she straddled his thighs, and began to stoke her, watching her face.

Two unexpected results of pregnancy had been very pleasurable for Grissom—they had discovered this face to face sitting position worked very well to stimulate pleasure for both and Sara's breasts had gotten slightly larger and as her lower body tightened to his touch, her nipples hardened into two rose-colored buds, and it aroused him beyond belief. He buried his face in the valley between the perfect firm mounds and breathed in her unique scent as his lips began an upward ascent to the peak.

A wonderful rush of sensation whipped through Sara as Grissom's fingers continued to touch her in a very intimate way. Her hands encircled his neck as she pressed tightly against him. He kissed her again and again until his mouth found hers. She moved against his hand, twisting and clenching as rippling muscles became rolling waves. And then, just when she thought she could not stand the continued stimulation, he clamped hands around her hips and drove himself deep inside her. They moved together until both fell into that whirling pool of desire.

For a time they lay quietly, listening to breathing as it returned to normal, feeling the warmth of each other. Grissom's eyes opened to find a pair of brown ones very close to his. He made a humming sound and smiled.

"Hey," he said as he smiled. His arms pulled her into a tight hug. "Having you love me is the most perfect thing that ever happened to me." He had never expected to feel this way—he had not dreamed he could—and now he did, his life belonged to her. "I love you" he said, his voice low, catching with emotion so that he paused for several seconds. "You taught me to love, Sara."

_A/N: One more chapter-now review. This has been a long one, thanks to you who have stayed with us, especially those who send a message! Last chapter tomorrow..._


	30. Chapter 30

**Murder without Guilt Chapter 30**

_For those who wish to look beyond the boundary of this story of life, what follows are two short epilogues of love and happiness:_

_Four years after the birth of her twins, Sara Sidle Grissom left her home in the middle of the night_ while a rare snow fell from the Vegas sky. She eased into the front seat of the car and sat back with a heavy sigh.

"Thanks," she murmured as she accepted the blanket placed around her body. She no longer lived ten minutes from her destination and the pain that coursed through her body in increasing intervals meant she needed to hurry. But her husband returned to the house and seemed to take his time before reappearing with a small bag.

This time he made it to the driver's seat, saying "I forgot my things." His hand rested on her knee. "You okay?"

She nodded and, as he drove with uncharacteristic care, she attempted to control her pain with thoughts of past events—the birth of twins which she had missed, the joyfulness she experienced as she learned to be a mother to two babies, their family trip to Costa Rica last year when they had backpacked in the rainforest with two three year olds, and the year long monthly visits to specialists that had finally ended on the fifth and last attempt for a second pregnancy.

Her hand sought out the man beside her. "You okay?" she asked. With him she had a deep sense of safety, of love and home and family.

"Yeah," he said. "Excited—are you having much pain?"

She shook her head. "Not too bad—breathing helps." She had been unconscious during the delivery of her twins, so labor was a new experience for her.

The car increased its speed.

Grissom pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it. "I'm trying to think about us having three children—outnumbered, you know."

Sara laughed, "With certain friends we've been outnumbered for four years! We may not leave home for years!"

"Not even for a vacation?"

"We'll take everyone next time—even Catherine." Sara shifted in her seat as contractions tightened around her again. "I appreciate her more every day!"

"Don't forget Greg and Nick—between the three, Will and Aimee won't miss us."

Without warning, a gasp broke from Sara; she frowned. Her breathing became quick and her hand gripped Grissom's with a strength that surprised him. "This is not fun!"

He grinned. "Breathe—remember all those exercises!" The car sped up again.

She grimaced. "Easier when it didn't hurt!"

At the hospital, they were expected, taken immediately to a room, and quickly everything in the world narrowed to that room and Sara's determination to breathe properly while everything inside her felt as if it was twisting and pulling apart. Grissom talked and talked, trying to distract her. The doctors and nurses returned, left and returned again, telling her she was doing fine and the baby's heart was strong and it wouldn't be long now.

And less than an hour later, just after midnight, while Grissom sat beside Sara, still holding her hand and telling her he loved her, their third child was born.

_A decade later, Nick Stokes drove a similar route_ with two boisterous teenagers in the middle seat of his vehicle.

"Okay, you two—pipe down back there before I haul you to jail." Nick glanced in the rearview mirror at the two. His warning did nothing to quiet their banter; instead the girl giggled louder and the sound of her laughter melted his heart into beating mush.

He grinned and shook his head, concentrated on driving and tried to ignore the noise. The fourth occupant in the car seemed unaffected by the racket as fingers drummed in time to something playing through the small earpiece. Nick actually enjoyed this—he had missed having his own children—he had missed getting married, he thought. Spending time with Sara's children had become his favorite pastime. He glanced at the two again—the twins looked like their mother which was one reason he found it so easy to smile in their presence and overlook the ongoing, good-natured argument.

His route was not to a hospital, but to the airport. Air travel had changed drastically in twenty years; he could remember driving to arrivals and departures and waiting at the curb. No more—every car was stopped, given an electronic number and directed to a distant parking garage where one waited. Passengers walked or rode to the "pick-up parking" area, which was where he headed today.

As soon as the vehicle stopped, the twins jumped out and ran toward the glass-enclosed waiting area. Nick laughed as the two long-legged kids raced each other across the parking deck, both lanky yet graceful in the way they moved. He said to the third child "I'm happy you'll walk with someone as old as me and not leave me behind."

Big blue eyes met his; the mouth formed a sly smile and one eyebrow lifted in a familiar fashion. "You're not old, Uncle Nick." The child took his hand and the two headed to the waiting area.

"There they are!" The teenage boy jumped up and down waving both hands above his head. "Mom! Dad!" he shouted.

"Stop acting like a fool, Will," his sister scolded. "They can't hear you."

Her rebuke made her brother more active; he jumped higher, whistled, and wildly waved his arms.

His sister gave him a strong, genial swat to his shoulder with more punch than needed causing him to stumble, which he turned into an exaggerated stagger. "Ah, Aim—I'm excited," he complained as he rubbed his shoulder. "They've been gone a whole month. I want them to know we're happy they are home."

Aimee, as tall as her brother and possessing a confidence and poise beyond her age, rolled her eyes. "Not like we haven't talked every day," she mumbled.

The two watched as their parents stepped onto a moving walkway. Halfway along the wide corridor their father saw them and lifted his hat in a wave. His face changed immediately into a grin as he touched the woman beside him. The wave caused the children to respond—both jumping and waving with the same enthusiasm the boy had shown earlier. When their mother saw them, her reaction was much like theirs—she stretched an arm above her head in a wide sweeping motion, her face breaking into a delighted grin. The two imitated her and added to their wave by moving their bodies together, sliding back and forth as one.

Their dad laughed. Neither child could have guessed their father's thoughts on seeing them and would have been surprised to learn he did not think of them but of their mother. She had looked so much like them when he met her the first time—all long legs and dark curled hair, a smile across her face that had made him stop and stare. He turned to look at the only woman he had ever loved; his face softened into a look he reserved for her. Somewhat awkwardly, as he had a large bag in one hand and a suitcase handle in the other, he leaned toward her and kissed her cheek.

While the two young teenagers had raced to the windows, Nick and his young companion had arrived at the exit for the walkway, maneuvered their way to the front of the waiting crowd, and spotted the parents waving to Will and Aimee.

"There they are," Nick said, bending down to the child's level and pointing.

In a flash, the child's hand slipped from Nick's grasp. The high voice rang over the general noise of arriving passengers, "Mom!"

Seconds later, Sara was lifting her youngest son, the child who truly was her miracle baby, conceived years after his dad had been left sterile by cancer, yet whose appearance announced to the world his paternity with sparkling blue eyes, wavy blonde hair, and a slight cleft in his chin. Gilbert Louis Grissom, given the French pronunciation of his name at birth, had won the race to his parents and gleefully kept one arm around his mother's neck and one around his father's as his brother and sister and Nick hugged and welcomed the travelers' home as they took luggage and bags from Sara and Grissom.

Gilbert, given the nickname of 'Lil Bear' by his brother within a day of his birth, had also won the right to provide a first report of important activities of the past few days in quick, run-on sentences of a ten-year old. "And Uncle Greg and Aunt Catherine are cooking our dinner. We've eaten cowboy stew five times that Uncle Nick made and did you know Uncle Greg could make a bomb? We made two in the back yard—just little ones—and Aimee has a boyfriend only she said he's a friend but they were holding hands. And I got two bee stings helping Will but it doesn't hurt any more. Aunt Catherine let me sleep with her last night cause she was cold and I missed you, Mom…"

His sister managed to speak when the young boy paused for a breath. "Lil Bear, you talk way too much!" She reached to tickle her brother who giggled before her hand touched him and wiggled from his mother's hold. There was much to say and tell as the family loaded into Nick's vehicle and headed home as everyone talked.

Just as Bear had announced, Greg and Catherine were preparing dinner for everyone and when the family burst into the house, Catherine almost dropped the bowl she held in her hands. Sara had always been pretty, and had kept her good looks as she aged, but today, after a long flight, a month on an archipelago off the coast of Ecuador studying some rare bug, she looked like a goddess, radiating an assured, unconscious magnetism—and to the surprised realization of Catherine—she looked ten years younger. Catherine's eyes sought Grissom and found a similar appearance—tanned, relaxed, laughing as he kept his children within his reach. They are more in love today than ever, she thought with a smile as she went to greet them.

(not 'the end' but a stopping place!)

_A/N: Hope you enjoyed this one-one of the longest stories we've written. For the first time in a very long time, we have no story in development-so we're taking a break for awhile! Here's a little blackmail-if you enjoyed this one, leave a comment and that will encourage our imaginations...Amelia, Mimi, and Yvette (aka Sarapals)_


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